


Bittersweet Heart

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ancient Greek Gods live on - and sometimes, they walk among us.</p><p>It's a dark time for the Winchesters. Dean is doing his best to hold what remains of his family together - but his younger brother, Sam, can't move on from the death of the girl he was going to marry, and it seems like there's nothing Dean can do to ease that sadness. Far, far below them, in the Underworld, the blue-eyed Lord of Death - Hades himself - is struggling with his own grief. And more than that - Hades is in trouble. He needs help.</p><p>One fateful evening, Hades meets the boys in a night-struck graveyard; he and Dean make a pact that will serve them both. It's a mutually beneficial agreement, nothing more - a little play-acting in return for a single soul. And play-acting is all it is, obviously; Dean and Hades, God of Death, aren't really together. Of course not. </p><p>... they just need to convince a Pantheon of Ancient Gods that they could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [K_K_TiBal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_K_TiBal/gifts).



> the art for this fic was done by my partner in crime, [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com), whose talent and enthusiasm will never, ever stop forcing me to take long walks. you can find links to the art masterpost on tumblr at the end of every chapter in which they feature. <3
> 
> this story is a gift for [thebloggerbloggerfun](http://thebloggerbloggerfun.tumblr.com). Mich, you're sitting right across the room from me with my cat on your lap!! I can't believe I got to spend your birthday with you. I hope you had as much fun as I did. <3 ilu, original bittersweetheart.
> 
> listen to the dedicated playlist as you read - [it's here on 8tracks!](http://http://8tracks.com/whelvenwings/bittersweet-heart)

There are rules that cannot be broken, and one of them is this: the Underworld is quiet.

Sunk down beneath the hungry earth - beneath the roots of the trees, and the mossy dripping caves, and the thirsty tunnels of the old gold mines; beneath hustle and hurry and animal noise, and sweat, and fear, and hunger; beneath Life itself - there is the Underworld.

Great halls, wide and empty of all but shadow, have their hush broken by no footfall, no whisper. They are a world of their own; a grey maze of gravestone doors, and cold, cold corridors, and ceilings too far away to be seen by a mortal eye.

Mortals do not come to this place. It is not for them.

And yet - no, all is not in complete stillness. At the end of one hall - the mightiest of them all, where quiet lies thick as dust and the air is close as a tomb -

Something moves, in the darkness.

Something tall, and soundless. It is shaped as a human; it wears robes blacker than a moonless night, a darkness so deep that it swallows. In its eyes is cold fire; in its hands is a staff, crystalline metal, swirled in shadow. On its head is a crown of dark points, resting heavy over its brow.

Here, then, is Hades.

He is on his throne, his hands tight around the metal of the sceptre. These are hands wreathed in power; they have death at their fingertips, they call life away to rest. These hands have ancient sorrows written into their bones. On the surface, though, they are only skin - smooth, unblemished.

Hades moves rarely. His empire is quiet and lonesome, and needs little of his attention.

Ah, but not always can he rest easily. There are times when even Hades himself must rise, and walk the mortal realm once more...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the cover on this chapter was done by the amazing [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com). you can find the art masterpost [here!!](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/148786173695/bittersweet-heart-art-masterpost) if you have a moment, please go and give her some love!!


	2. Chapter 2

Hades was on his throne. He was dreaming.

The dreams of a god are strange and strong and strange again, more vivid than reality. Today, Hades dreamed of a summer that he had known, once - in another life - and his dream curled around his head, old and golden and stained with the sharp sweet scent of blackberry juice; a halo, which curved like gauze above the rigid points of his iron crown.

Far away, perhaps miles or perhaps minutes - time and space being not quite so neatly divided in the Eternal Deep - there was a sound. A creak; a footstep, another.

Hades raised his head. Another being approached: one of the two who roamed this silent court. He was the first; she was the other.

She stopped before him now, and oh, how her face was swathed in sadness. She was so small, a speck in the far-reaching darkness of the room. She closed her eyes.

“I did not look for you ‘til later,” Hades said, his blue eyes lightened by happiness. “Is summer over so soon?”

“Castiel…”

“I will send for flowers, your favourite -”

“Castiel,” she said, cutting him off.

She called him by his mortal name - the name that he had owned before he had ever been Hades, before he had been divine. She had always called him that, ever since the beginning, when she had come to take him away to the Underworld - her old and kind, him a young boy - and had placed a crown of dark points upon his head. Castiel watched her face, her movements, familiar after so many decades together. Her voice was steadier than her hands, he saw.

He swallowed. He did not want to know what this meant - her sad looks, her cracked voice.

He stared at her, while he could - a dark thing, drinking in the sight of her light.

She wore her simple white chiton, the one that Castiel’s little scared fingers had grasped tightly so many times, at the beginning of it all. Atop her dark, tightly-curled hair was her crown of hyacinth and hellebore. It had once been purple and green, its fragrance stronger than shadow; now, its leaves were dry and grey, its petals fallen.

Castiel knew why she was here in front of him, though he did not want to. She had told him, right at the start, that it would be this way someday.

“Persephone… Missouri,” he said, speaking her old, mortal name in a voice deeper than time, that reverberated around the hall: a bass symphony of sadness. She held up a hand, palm-first, to silence him. Her eyes were still closed, as though she did not wish to look at him - the motherly kindness in her eyes hidden from him, today.

“Please don’t argue, Castiel,” she said. “You knew this day was coming. You knew that someday I - I would have to die.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. His throat, so dry for so many years, was different and strange; his heart, his steady, steady heart, flattened by immortality, was beating hard. It felt like an earthquake behind his ancient ribs.

Missouri sighed, and opened her eyes. She approached his throne, reached out, and placed one dark hand on his cheek. He looked up at her; his Persephone, his friend - his family - through so many years of solitude.

“Look at my crown,” she said. She reached up, and touched the leaves; they crackled under her fingers, thin and twisted by dryness. “It is time, Castiel. You have to let me go.”

“How will I replace you?” Castiel said wretchedly, his hands grasping tighter around his staff. He had been thinking about this for days - for months - for years. Ever since the wrinkles on her face had started to show, and the petals on her crown had started to fall.  “How will I ever find another?”

Missouri smiled; Castiel saw the wrinkles around her eyes deepen. He wished he could brush them away, wished he could put the lifeblood back into her crown - but his hands were made to do exactly the opposite.

“There must always be a Persephone,” she said gently. “And there must always be a Hades. They will always be, and they will always find each other.” She was speaking things he knew well in quiet, gentle tones, to reassure him. “You know this, Castiel.”

“But, Missouri -”

“Enough,” Missouri reprimanded him, with a touch of sternness. “I found you, didn’t I? I came to the mortal world and I found you, when it was time for the last Hades to die.” She dipped her head, as she always did whenever she spoke of the one who had carried the name of Hades before Castiel. After a moment, she carried on, though her voice was tighter than before. “I am going to her now,” Missouri said. “It’s been so many years, but I don’t believe she will have gone on without me. I can go to her, Castiel. Please. You have to let me go.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way -”

“We all must die, Castiel. Only the name lives on. You know this.” Missouri’s hand tightened on his cheek. “There are rules that cannot be broken, and one of them is this: we all must die.”

“There is nothing for you on the other side of the shadows,” Castiel said to her, pressing his hand over hers. “There are only the waters of the River Lethe. You will drink them and forget everything. You will forget me.”

“I will not forget you,” she said, her voice cracking. “There is still choice after death, Castiel, you know this. I will not forget you. You have been written into my heart since the first time I felt your mortal soul call to mine, when the last Hades died and it was your time.”

Castiel couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Do you think I will feel it too? The call?” he said. “Will I know where to go, to find the new Persephone?”

Missouri’s eyes were sad, and soft, and reassuring.

“You will,” she said. “There will be a feeling - something inside you, calling you to the right place. The right mortal. When you find them, you can show them who they are - just like I showed you, do you remember? And then you can present them to the other gods, at the Panathenaia.”

Castiel’s breath was coming too fast; he was afraid, for the first time in so, so long.

“You will feel it,” Missouri promised. “Castiel, it’s time… please…”

His heart was aching - he _felt_ it, felt the ache inside his chest. Castiel stood, straightening up to tower over Missouri. She was so small, and strong. He took a long, long moment simply to look at her: his friend, whom he had loved for all these years.

He looked down at his hands. He knew what they could do.

She was watching him; he knew how much it was hurting her, to leave him alone. Castiel put on his bravest face for her, and nodded.

She smiled sadly - so, so sadly - and nodded in return.

“We should do it in the old way. With the sceptre…” Missouri said, but Castiel shook his head firmly.

“I will lay you down,” he said, his voice distant even to himself. Missouri looked like she wanted to argue - no doubt it had always been done with the sceptre before - but Castiel was adamant. If he had to do this, he would at least do it with his own hands. And kindly, he would do it kindly.

They stood opposite each other on the dais of his throne room, a great infinity of darkness for an audience. There should be bells tolling, Castiel thought to himself, there should be weeping and wailing and rending of clothes…

“Close your eyes,” he said, hearing the hurt in the words. Missouri’s eyes were on his, steady.

“This is the way it must be,” she said. “There are rules that cannot be broken…”

“And one of them is this,” Castiel said. “Even gods must die. But the name lives on.”

Missouri pressed her lips together for a moment, tight, to stop their trembling.

“Close your eyes,” Castiel said again.

“I will look for you in Elysium, Castiel…”

She had tears in her eyes, that spilled down her cheeks as she closed them. Castiel raised his hand - shook his head, lowered it, almost knelt and begged her to stay - and then sighed, and gave in, and gently, slowly curved his wrist. With all the skill and tenderness he had, he gently laid her down to rest. She faded from his sight.

The last he looked upon her face, she looked gentle, and calm. For a moment, in the tenderness of her passing, Castiel thought he felt something slip with her into death; something a little more than just her own essence.

He blinked away the thought, and it was forgotten.

Her flower crown crumbled to dust before it hit the floor. Castiel knelt, now, the silence of the hall too vast and heavy, weighing him down. He pressed his fingertips into the dust; he did not cry.

He waited for the call: for a new name to be written into his heart. For the tugging summons of the new Persephone to come to him, from high above in the mortal world.

He waited, and waited. The dust pile held his fingerprints, unscattered by wind or footstep.

He waited, still.

He felt nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the art in this chapter was done by the amazing [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com). you can find the art masterpost [here!!](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/148786173695/bittersweet-heart-art-masterpost) if you have a moment, please go and give her some love!!


	3. Chapter 3

“Sam, will you come out down to the river today?”

“No.”

“It’s a beautiful day…”

“No.”

“Sam, if you’d just…”

“No, Dean.”

Dean sighed, resting his weight on the door jamb and folding his arms. Outside, the sun was shining, but Sam had drapes across the windows, and the room was entirely in shadow. Sam himself was lying on his bed, only his messy hair visible over the top of the covers. Dean felt goosebumps rising on his bare forearms, and repressed a shiver. The room was cool, like grass in the shade of a tombstone.

“Come on, Sammy. You can’t stay in here forever. She wouldn’t…”

Sam went unnaturally still, and Dean dropped the sentence without finishing it. His throat closed, and he clenched his fists.

“I’ll be down by the water if you need me,” Dean said. “There was some good panning yesterday, and we might get lucky again. I don’t have work, so... come down, if you want.”

Sam said nothing. Dean lingered for a moment, half in the door and half out, before turning away. Sam needed his space.

Dean picked his path through the mess that was their house, small and cosy and coated with books and scrolls and plants and clothes. They’d lived in the house long enough for their belongings to melt into the walls and the floor; their roots were wound deep into the foundations. Dean picked up a loose jacket from behind a chair - one with light, netted sleeves that wouldn’t get soaked by the water down at the river where he was going panning. At the front door, Dean turned back, peering through the living room to the sliver of Sam’s door that he could see. For half a moment, he really believed that Sam was going to duck his head around the door jamb with a wan grin on his face, and say _just let me find my boots,_ and Dean would say _I got them ready right here,_ and Sam would say, _thanks, Dean._ And they’d go down to the river, and it would help…

Sam did not appear. Dean opened his mouth to call out goodbye, and then shut it. His lips felt sewn shut as soon as they pressed together. He swallowed hard, grabbed his backpack from a hook behind the door, and headed out of the house and into the sunlight.

Walking was good; walking felt better. Dean’s big grey boots stomped him past the neighbouring houses, all of them narrow and small, with columned porches and flowers on trellises climbing the white-painted walls. The place was mostly deserted, but Dean caught sight of Anna sweeping her front step two doors down, and raised his hand in greeting. She waved back, her eyes solemn. Dean adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, and kept walking. He’d got used to that, recently; the serious looks on everyone’s faces whenever they saw him. He wished they could let him forget, even for a moment, what had happened. Maybe this was why Sam never wanted to leave the house.

Dean ducked into an alleyway between two fences and soon found himself under a gentle festoon of leaves, the trees growing in height and age as he went further into the woods behind the village where they lived.

The leaves were just starting to turn golden and brown, with dashes of red as bright as blood streaked here and there throughout the canopy. Dean watched a single leaf float gently down to the floor, as delicate in death as a butterfly coming to land. The grass under his boots was still springy and green, but the air had a definite chill. Autumn was coming, bringing her mists and rain and dark evenings with her.

“Dean!” came a shout from nearby, as Dean pushed through bracken with outstretched hands and emerged onto a riverbank, the ground suddenly slippier with mud. The scent of running water rose to greet him, clean and fresh over the moss-covered rocks. In the river were people - at least twenty of them, all in waterproof waders.

“Dean, we got a statuette!” called the same voice, light and happy. Charlie came splashing out of the water, her waders slipping off one shoulder. She was holding out a statue at least as long as her forearm, with a pointed spear. She pushed it into his hands excitedly.

Dean took it, and saw that the end of the spear had snapped off - it was supposed to be a trident. Poseidon, then. He turned it over, checking it for details, trying to guess its age. Perhaps sixty - no, seventy years old, judging by the way the feet were welded to the plinth?

He turned the statuette back over. Poseidon frowned up at Dean in cast iron, his broad chest carrying a slight dent. He wasn’t perfect - but then, he had been in the river for Zeus knew how long.

“Dean?” Charlie said. She was waiting for his approval - or maybe just for a greeting, since Dean hadn’t spoken yet, he remembered. He was bad at that, these days - remembering to talk. Maybe that was why everyone kept looking at him so solemnly in the village.

“Yeah, hey there,” Dean forced out, and smiled. Charlie’s face relaxed, and Dean’s smile became a little less forced. Charlie, at least, knew a lot about what they were going through - what it felt like to lose someone close to you. Dean looked back down at the statuette she’d given him so eagerly. “So it looks like, uh. Poseidon. No tip to his trident, dent to the chest, but still. You’ll get a good price for it if you hold off selling ‘til the Panathenaia this weekend, everyone goes crazy for the icons and all that stuff.”

Every word was a strain, but talking became easier the longer he spoke. Charlie was nodding seriously, her hair twisted into curls by the river spray.

“Okay, got it,” she said. “Thanks, Dean. Did you guys eat that moussaka I left on the step?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Dean said, and then didn’t know what else to say. Charlie put her hand on his arm.

“No Sam?” she said. Dean lifted a shoulder, and she twisted her mouth into a sympathetic half-smile. “Losing Jess was always going to be hardest on him.”

“I know, I know,” Dean said. “I’m not blaming him for shutting himself away. I just wish…”

He felt his throat close. Charlie squeezed his arm.

“One day at a time,” she said, and then offered him an impish smile with a touch of underlying sadness. Dean returned it.

“One day at a time,” he said. She squeezed his forearm and then moved away, giving Dean his space.

Dean turned to look at the river. He recognised every one of the people bent over the water in their filmy waders. A couple of them looked up and nodded to Dean in greeting when he caught their eye, but most were too intent on the riverbed.

“Hey, Benny,” Dean called out, recognising a familiar bearded figure poking through the contents of his battered old pan. Benny looked up and then smiled, his eyes as warm as they always were whenever he saw Dean.

“Morning, brother,” Benny greeted him, stepping carefully over the slippery rocks underfoot to emerge from the river and onto the bank.

Dean stepped over to the water’s edge to peer into Benny’s pan, but saw only grey rock and silt.

“Nothing much today?” Dean asked, a vague hand gesture encompassing the empty pan. Benny rattled it, and shrugged a heavy shoulder.

“Not so much,” Benny admitted. “Some, but not so much. Still, Panathenaia ain’t far. The fancy folks upriver will be dropping all kinds of things in the water for the gods, and they’ll all be headed our way.”

“Yeah… but those things are _for the gods_ , Benny,” Dean said seriously, making Benny smile. He shrugged again, but more lightly this time.

“Ah, who’s to tell the difference between a god and a villager,” Benny said. “We both do too much work for too little thanks, don’t we?”

“So it makes perfect sense that we villagers _steal_ the thanks intended for the gods,” Charlie said, reappearing at Dean’s shoulder without the statuette, ready to go back into the water. “Steal those thanks right out of the river.”

“Stealing? It ain’t stealing. What’s a god going to do with money and statues?” Benny said. “I’ll take the gifts with good grace. And I’ll pay the gods myself in belief, and prayers, and such. And that way, we all keep each other alive.”

“I can never tell if you believe in anything deep down, Benny,” Charlie said, as Benny walked to the water’s edge and stepped back in. Benny laughed.

“I believe in food on the table, sister,” he said. “And there’ll be plenty thanks to the gods and the Panathenaia.”

Charlie lifted a shoulder and shook her head. “Maybe the gods really don’t exist anymore,” she said to Dean, casually. Dean couldn’t help swallowing hard and shifting uncomfortably. Charlie noticed, and snorted.

“Come on, Dean, you’re usually the first to say it.”

“Well, yeah, but - we should be careful -”

“Sure, Hades is just waiting round the corner to drag you to Tartaros,” she said. “And watch out for the three-headed dog behind that tree.”

Dean hefted his backpack higher on his shoulder uncomfortably.

“The gods are important,” Dean said. “Like... Hades, for example. He takes care of you. When, you know… after you...” he trailed off obscurely, but Charlie’s eyes widened and she let out a breath before speaking again.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.” She paused. “I get it. The gods are important, you’re right.”

Dean nodded silently. He’d never paid all that much attention to the gods before, it was true, but ever since they’d lost Jess… suddenly it had seemed a great deal more important that the gods were waiting on the other side, that they were - not friendly, of course, but _there._ A certainty; a cold, guiding hand that Dean could imagine leading Jess to where she needed to be.

He turned away from Charlie and headed towards the rocky outcrop a little way down the bank, perching himself on the nearest rock with no moss on it and slinging his backpack onto the ground. He looked around and caught sight of Benny in the river, watching him pensively. Dean smiled for his benefit.

“Everything alright?” he called. Dean nodded, shrugging his shoulders as naturally as he could, trying to seem relaxed.

“I am Mr Alright,” he called back. “You know who has never been more alright? It’s this guy.” He pointed a thumb at himself, and then upturned it in Benny’s direction. Benny looked to Charlie, who was still standing along the bank, giving Dean a look that told him he wasn’t getting away with anything - but she was prepared to let it go for now. His smile relaxed into gratitude, and he turned his attention down to his backpack, pulling out his pan and his own light waders.

 

 

He tugged them on, the material still dripping a little after yesterday’s panning. He’d have to hang them out to dry in front of the stove tonight, or they’d start to show some wear and tear. Since he’d been given time off work after Jess had - had passed away, Dean had needed something to fill his days, and panning had been a good enough way to pass the time.

Waders on, Dean headed over to the bank and waded into the water, feeling the current swifting over his legs and the slippery rocks on the riverbed making his footing uncertain. He planted his feet wide and leaned into the water’s push, letting the strength of the river take a little of his weight. It was cool, but not cold, and when he laid his hand palm-flat on the surface it felt smooth as glass. On every side, lush greenery rose up close to the banks, leaves dripping down like water drops towards the river’s surface - and above where Dean stood, a great willow tree cried strings of emerald that brushed over his shoulders the further into the water that he ventured. He took in a deep breath, smelling the fresh cleanliness of the ever-moving river water, and the sap-sharp twist of the foliage. He wished that Sam could have been here with him, to see this. Dean knew that Sam had far, far more to carry than Dean did, but - oh, it would do his heart good to be out in the water, with good people around him.

Maybe Sam would be ready to come along, one of these days.

Dean bent over, dipping his pan deep and shoveling through the riverbed’s stones. The netting of his pan was set wide, so that most of the useless pebbles, splintered by their constant battering on the river’s course, would slip straight through and leave only the good things - the large coins, the jewellery, even the statuettes, if they were lucky - from upriver, where the rich people in the big city dropped them off high-flying bridges down into the water as votives and prayers.

He panned all day, and didn’t find much. Lunch came and went before he even caught a glimpse of shine in his pan - a simple enough coin, large and silver. Just one drachma, but enough to buy a new set of candles, which they needed. The afternoon wore on with hardly any sign of a gleam - there was only one more treasure to be had that day, and it was one that Dean hardly wanted. A coin, again, still in silver, with a sceptre etched on one side and a simple cross on the other. A token for Hades, tossed into the river in the hopes of staving off the journey down into the underworld for another week, or month, or year. Dean gripped the coin in his hand, wondering whether the coin might have done Jess any good, if it had been she who had thrown it into the water with a prayer.

Dean almost tossed it back into the water, but at the last moment, he put it into his pocket. Beggars could not be choosers, and losing Jess had been almost as hard on their purses as it had on their hearts. The coin would buy a meal for him and Sam, at least.

“Hades, forgive me,” Dean murmured. “I mean no harm. Don’t begrudge me this, after you’ve taken so much already.”

The water ran on past him, and the leaves blew gently over the surface in a breeze. The world was carrying on, carrying on, carrying on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the art in this chapter was done by the amazing [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com). you can find the art masterpost [here!!](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/148786173695/bittersweet-heart-art-masterpost) if you have a moment, please go and give her some love!!


	4. Chapter 4

“My Lord Hades,” said a cool, clear voice, as soon as Castiel threw the herbs into the fire: rosemary, for far-reaching words; thyme, for hawk-sight; and a drop of ichor, for Olympus. “Castiel. You call late in the day.”

“Hera,” Castiel replied, speaking into the flames of his hearth in the Underworld, and seeing through them a vision of high above: the gardens at Olympus, with the columns of the great temple on either side, cloaked in greenery. He was seeing through the light of the eternal blaze that burned in the temple atop the gods’ mountain, and standing with her face to the fire was the flame-haired mother of the gods, her red lipstick as perfect as ever, her eyes fierce. Castiel had known only one Hera, but he was told that this one was different to others - leaner, angrier, hungrier. In life, she had styled herself Abaddon; in the afterlife, wearing the cloak of the gods, she preferred her divine name, always.

Hera had always been one of his very least favourites, among the pantheon. Few of the gods met his expectations of divinity - some of them were practically mortal in their emotions, he thought with distaste. Not that he was one to be able to judge, quite so much, anymore. The clench of loss and worry grew stronger with every passing moment, so it seemed.

“Do you bring news?” Hera asked, velvety sweet, and Castiel clenched his fists. She would have felt the Persephone’s passing, as would every god on Olympus and under it. She wanted to make him say it. Well, let her have her wish; death was nothing to Hades.

“The Persephone is dead,” he said bluntly, and Hera’s sparkle of animal fun was dimmed a little by his curt tone.

“We shall look for her in Elysium,” Hera answered, the traditional words. Castiel ached to hear them cut from those ruby-red lips, sharp and insincere. “We felt her passing. Why do you come to Olympus with these tidings?”

“I…” Castiel started, and trailed away. “Is there no other god with whom to speak?” he hazarded. “I seek counsel, and would not wish to tire you.”

“I am a goddess, Castiel,” Hera said, silky soft. “I may not have Aphrodite’s beauty, but I have all of her  _ stamina,  _ and more. You shall not tire me.” There, the hunger. Castiel only ever saw it in flashes, but it tugged at his heart with its strength. Here was a mother who was all blood and bone.

“Of course,” Castiel said, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right, aware of his robes swirling around him. They lent him courage; he felt the dark, divine side of himself harden against what had to be done. “I seek answers, Hera. Before her death, Missouri told me I would be able to sense the presence of the new Persephone, wherever they may be in the mortal world. And yet I do not… I cannot feel…” he trailed off, suddenly aware of the light in Hera’s eyes blazing brightly - too brightly.

“You cannot sense them,” she said. He had expected her to make fun, but this was worse - she looked as though she had never heard better news in all her life.

“I cannot,” Castiel replied, trying to be matter-of-fact. He had spent hours searching within himself, trying to understand what a call might feel like - he had pressed his divinity out as far as it would reach, but he had sensed nothing. Only the ordinary prayers and beggings of mortals. “I wonder if there is some ritual, some… herb, or incantation…”

“This is not a question of petty magics,  _ your Lordship _ ,” Hera said, her tone mocking.

“A greater magic, then,” Castiel said, hearing the desperation in his own voice; Hera heard it too, and her eyes narrowed, calculating. He was sickened by her; she was revelling in his discomfort. More than that, she looked almost feral. He felt his steady grey heart give a hard beat of misgiving.

“Athena always said you had a crack in your chassis, Castiel,” Hera said, rolling the words around as though they were delicious. Oh, how she savoured his confusion and misfortune; it was what she had been hungry for.

“Hera…” Castiel began. “I only wish to know if there is some other means of finding the next…”

“There is none,” Hera said. Her tone was viciously full of pleasure. “You will have to find the Persephone somehow, Castiel. And I suggest you do it before the Panathenaia, or else you may find yourself losing more than your divinity.”

“My divinity?” Castiel murmured, his hands clenched into fists behind his back. “What is this? A god cannot be stripped of their divinity.”

“Missouri was,” Hera pointed out, archly sweet, deadly as a poisoned apple.

“Missouri  _ died _ ,” Castiel replied.

“Yes,” Hera said, leaning closer to the flames, her rich red mouth curved upwards like the final flick of a cobra’s tail. “Yes, Castiel. And I swear to you this: when Zeus finds you incapable of fulfilling your divine duties, and demands you to be cast out, and a new Hades instated…” Her smile only widened. “Mine shall be the hand on the hilt of the godly blade that stabs your heart. You have taken so many of my babies… and now I shall take  _ you. _ ” Castiel swallowed hard. The veins in her neck were purple, the tendons and sinews taut. She was controlled, but she was terrible in her sudden rage, an anger that was not Abaddon’s but Hera’s, born of the millenia of enmity between the god of mothers and the god of death.

“I only sought help,” Castiel whispered. “Advice.” Hera’s smile was lacquered venom.

“Then let me advise you,” she said. “Find your Persephone before the Panathenaia, Castiel. Find them, or die.”

With a flick of her hand, she broke the connection between them; in the Underworld, Castiel’s fire was snuffed out. He leaned against the mantelpiece, and put his hand on his brow.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he said, with feeling.

**

Dean slid back into the house as the last of daylight slanted down through the windows, setting down his backpack quietly and peering through the house to Sam’s room. The light was off, but that didn’t always mean that Sam was asleep, these days. 

Still, Dean thought it was better not to call out, in case his younger brother really was getting some rest. Sam was so plagued by nightmares that he needed every last moment of peaceful sleep he could find.

Dean pulled his gauzy waders out of his backpack and carried them through to the kitchen, where the house’s wood-burning stove was always warm. The waders dried fast, and Dean had shaken them down after his day in the river, but he hung them neatly over the teak clothes horse in front of the wood-burner’s heat to make sure that they would be completely crisp for the next day. He saw a small shadow in the pocket on one side, and frowned, reaching for it - ah, of course. His coins, found in the river earlier in the day. He shoved them into the pocket of the loose trousers he was wearing absently.

He braced himself for a moment against the counter, dipping his head. He hated how hard it was, now, to be light and fun company for his friends. It had been a long day.

It would get easier, he told himself. 

He’d been saying the same thing for weeks, now, and the edge still hadn’t worn off.

His stomach growled. They’d finished up Charlie’s moussaka the night before, but they still had large amounts of their neighbours’ kind offerings to eat up before Dean would need to find the energy to go back to cooking. He crossed the kitchen and knelt down, pulling open a hatch in the wooden floor and staring down blankly for a moment at the pit beneath, neat walls lined with bricks enclosing several pots filled with premade meals. Dean reached down for the uppermost one, the crockery cold under his fingers from being kept underground. He lifted the lid and saw Ellen’s famous fasolakia, still fresh and good to eat. Dean closed the hatch and stood up - only to flinch in shock when he saw Sam leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, watching Dean quietly.

“Zeus, Sammy, give a guy some warning. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Sam offered a dry, tired smile in response, his eyes barely focusing on Dean. He looked mazed by sleep, still half lost in dreams.

“Didn’t expect you to be awake,” Dean said, moving across the kitchen and reaching for the oven mitt, so that he could swing open the door of the wood-burner and put the fasolakia inside.

Sam lifted a shoulder.

Dean leaned against the counter, and chewed his lip, and tried not to watch Sam. He’d been snapped at too many times before for staring at his younger brother, trying to figure out what to say to him. Dean didn’t blame Sam for it - Zeus only knew what the kid was going through, he was allowed to be irritable - but Dean also couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing it again.

“It’ll be ready soon,” he said out loud. Sam raised his head, and dragged his feet over to the counter to stand next to Dean.

“What is it?”

“Fasolakia.”

“Oh. I’m good,” Sam said. “I’ll just have some salad and feta.”

“What? You can’t not eat something decent  _ again. _ ”

“I’m just not hungry, Dean. It’s fine.”

“I ate all of the moussaka -”

“I had some of that.”

“One bite off my plate isn’t gonna give you the nutrients -”

“Dean, come on.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m too tired for this.”

Silence caught the room in an awkward stranglehold. Dean stared at Sam, caught between too many feelings to name. Confusion, worry, anger - anger that Sam wouldn’t take care of himself properly - and most of all, of course, sadness. Sadness that Sam had this loss with him, stealing his appetite and his health. Dean reached over, and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Some days Sam flinched away from his touch, but today he relaxed into it.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean said. “Have some dinner. You know how happy it’d make Ellen to hear you ate properly.” He pushed on Sam’s shoulder, guiding him to the scrubbed-wood table and sitting him down. Sam let himself be pushed, his expression reluctant - but it was a reluctance that Dean recognised from when Sam was tiny. It was the reluctance that would bend to his older brother’s request. Just.

Dean headed back to the stove, neatening the spices and utensils on the counter just to give his hands something to do. Once again, he couldn’t help feeling that if Sam could only rejoin the world outside their house, he would be finding it easier to leave behind his pain and his tiredness and his dark moods behind him. Dean wished that they had something - a reason to push them out the door, something they  _ had  _ to do. He wished that they weren’t so fixed, living in their little village, where every corner was a place that Sam had been with Jess, laughed with Jess, joked with Jess… they’d painted the whole village yellow in their shared happiness, and with her gone, Sam couldn’t bear to see the colour.

Dean knew it was possible that they’d leave town, he and Sam. On the one hand, Dean couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to all his friends here - trying to make a life without them - but on the other hand, he couldn’t imagine Sam ever being able to walk around their village, their neighbourhood, even the house they lived in, without remembering Jess with every step he took. And that was no way to move on, Dean knew. It had been hard enough staying here after their parents died, and they’d both been so young, then.

One of the few good things about staying in the same place, Dean thought, had been the fact that they’d been able to visit their parents’ graves often. Maybe they were both strange - but being able to visit the stones, and speak to them... it had felt as though their parents weren’t completely gone. It had helped.

“Sammy,” Dean said, turning around. Sam looked up at him, expression glazed like frosted glass. “Wanna go along to the temple tonight? We can visit Jess.”

For the first time in weeks, Dean saw a little spark of life in Sam’s eyes. The planes of his face seemed to change, shifting back into the angles Dean understood. For a moment - just a moment - Dean had the sudden, unexpected sensation of having his brother back.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah. I’d like that.”


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel walked the land. He was searching.

His cloak moved differently in the mortal realm, weightier and more solid - yet still dark as a dying star, still noiseless. He lit his path with a glow from his sceptre, which obliged him with a blue, cold light. He was taking strides through time, through space. He listened, listened, listened. He tried to stretch his heart outside his body, tried to make it feel something - _anything_ \- a pull, a warmth, a sound…

But there was nothing. He felt - nothing.

He had been walking through decades, seeking, seeking. Mortal time passed beneath his feet like river water - a flood that could be fought - but nevertheless it had a hold on him, its current pushing him ever forwards, towards the day of the Panathenaia. The day when his divinity would be judged. He had gone back as far as his feet would walk him, looking, listening, and hearing nothing.

Now, he rested. The ease of the present moment picked him up; Castiel did not fight it. He let time carry him, yielding to it.

Between the boughs of a weeping willow, beside the waters of a flowing river, he stood utterly still. He had searched everywhere. Up and down history, and all the lands he knew, he had travelled - and he felt nothing. He was drawn to no specific place, nor person. He was quite alone.

The hanging branches of the weeping willow enclosed him, hid him from the wide, empty world. It was night in the place where he had come to rest, and he could glimpse the stars through the leaves - leaves that were beginning to fall, without Persephone to keep them alive.

Castiel stared up bleakly, helpless. His right hand clenched tighter around the sceptre, the blue light as familiar to him as his own voice. It was cold beneath his hand, the weight of it natural and right. Was it possible that he wasn’t the right person to carry it - that he really did deserve to be stripped of his divinity? That at the Panathenaia, he should lose his head so that another Hades could take his place? But - who would find the next Hades, if there was no Persephone? The one had always found the other, always…

Castiel looked at the sceptre - and then let it go.

It stood up alone, his touch unneeded.

Castiel stared at it, his hands clenched by his sides. He was Hades - but Hades would not always be him. The sceptre would pass on to another some day, regardless of whether or not he made it through the Panathenaia. Perhaps he should simply give up...

Castiel raised his head.

Somewhere close by, quiet and sweet, there was the sound of a song being played. A lyre, Castiel thought. He tilted his head to listen better.

The song was slow, and sad, but still beautiful. It tugged at Castiel - just for a moment, he felt himself drawn forwards, the sensation like a silver hook around a single one of his ribs. He frowned, trying to catch the sensation, feeling a leap of hope -

It disappeared. Castiel thinned his lips. Now he was even imagining a feeling that wasn’t there, just to give himself an inch of hope. He had to be careful. He dreamed so vividly, as a god - more vividly than reality. He could leave a scar of too-real dream in this place, if he let his mind run away with itself.

Perhaps he should give up. Or perhaps he should see who was playing that music…

Castiel hesitated for a long, long moment. It could not hurt to at least _look..._

He reached out, wrapped his hand around his sceptre, and headed towards the place where the music was being played.

The walk was short beneath his divine feet, his progress serene even as he covered yards in the same stride. He drew closer to a village, tiny and unfamiliar to him - but the music was coming from slightly outside it, beyond the warm lights of the homes. Castiel frowned and approached, following the call of the lyric music, cloak swirling around him.

As he came close, he began to understand. The shapes of the stones in neat lines were familiar to him - a graveyard. And sitting before one of the markers was a boy - no, two boys, one holding a lamp and the other clutching a lyre in his large hands. He was tall, the boy playing the music - Castiel could see that, even though he was sitting down. He had long hair that hung in his eyes, and a slope of sadness and defeat to his shoulders. The lyre looked incongruous in his hands, too small and delicate, but he played it with unexpected skill. He seemed to be concentrating hard.

Castiel watched him for a long time, frowning. He recognised recent loss when he saw it. He did not feel regret, but he did feel - something. Compassion, perhaps. The boy looked so young.

The other one - the one holding the lamp - looked a little older. In fact, when Castiel looked longer, he could see the promise of lines around his eyes. Perhaps he was twenty four, or twenty five. He had shorter hair than the one playing the music, and the expression on his face… Castiel stared and stared, but he couldn’t understand it. Something complex, something that wasn’t quite sadness but certainly was not happiness. Castiel blinked, and tilted his head slightly to one side.

The younger boy kept playing, and the older one listened, and Castiel watched and watched.

There was something about that face on the older boy that had him fascinated. He couldn’t stop staring. Castiel had seen any number of beautiful faces in his time, and had learned not to set too much stock by them, since beauty faded under the touch of his hands more quickly than almost anything else - but this face wasn’t only beautiful. The eyes had a depth, and there was a shape to the mouth, an angle of the head…

 _There._ Castiel felt it again. The ever-so-slight pull, drawing him forwards. Towards these two mortals.

He let out a long breath. He couldn’t walk away from this - the only thing he’d felt that even came close to being the call from his Persephone. He squared his shoulders, and stepped out from the darkness of the trees, moving between the stones - making for the place where the two boys sat, unaware of the shadowed force that stalked towards them.

***

Sam laid down his lyre, the song finished. Dean looked away for a moment, reading the headstone beside which they were sitting, giving Sam time to dry his eyes.

_Jessica Moore. Dear friend, dear love. Gone too soon._

Dean wiped at his own eyes, pressing his lips together. He drew in a breath, and let it go.

Around them, the wide night was cool as silk, cypress sweetness on the air and the stars filling the sky to brim up above. They had only the gravestones for company - simple marble markers, with moss smoothing their edges. It should have been eerie, Dean knew, for the pair of them to be sitting here, the only two beating hearts above a quiet land of long-stilled bodies. But they’d both grown used to the peace, the hush, when they’d come here so often before.

Dean looked over to the place where their parents were buried, over by the corner, closer to the trees. Sam had wanted Jess to be nearer to them, but she’d been laid to rest next to her own family. Dean stared out over the dark, quiet graveyard, feeling that sensation - connection, memory, not quite sadness - which rested over him like a cloak when he sat in this place for long enough. He felt his shoulders ease, hands uncurl. He hadn’t visited in too long.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam said, his voice coming out a little hoarsely. Dean looked over at him, and saw that Sam's eyes, though fixed sadly on Jess’ grave, were dry. “For - for this. I forgot this was what we did, back when - when Mom and Dad…”

He broke off, schooling his face, pressing his mouth thin.

“I just want to help...” Dean said, his voice low and cracked and a little awkward.

“I know, Dean.” Sam’s tone of voice begged for silence.

For a few moments, they sat wordlessly - but eventually, Sam sighed.

“Dean,” he said. “Just say it. Whatever it is you’re thinking.”

Dean swallowed. He’d been trying to think quietly, but Sam knew him too well. Anyone else would have never have noticed anything amiss, but with Sam, Dean couldn’t seem to help but shout everything he felt through their tacit understanding.

“Uh, well,” he began awkwardly. “It’s just… just that…”

“Dean. Come on. Say it.”

“I don't want to upset you…” Dean said, a little shamefaced - and he actually flushed when Sam sent him a look that was equally disbelieving and withering.

“I think we moved past upset a while back. No saving me now,” Sam said. Dean's heart seemed to contract in his chest. “Just tell me, Dean.”

“Sam…” Dean began again, even more wretchedly than before. “Look, it's just… right now, I… I can see you staying in your room for the rest of your life, you know? And...” He rushed on, not wanting to stop now that he'd started. “... And - Zeus knows it’s not my place to speak for her, Sammy - but we both know that J… that Jess wouldn’t have wanted that for you. She wouldn't have wanted any of this -this fucking mess - but...” He trailed off, losing his thread.

Sam was nodding, his head lowered.

“I just -” he said, and then his voice seized. He took a deep breath, and tried again. “I just can’t believe that she’s gone.” He frowned at the ground with the pain of it, still holding strong against his tears. “She _shouldn’t_ be gone.”

“I know,” Dean said, helpless. “I know.”

Silence. More silence. Dean was growing to hate the way that words were never enough, too clumsy to fit in everything that he wanted to say. Sam was reading the headstone, his eyes glazed, lost in thought. At least they’d made progress tonight, Dean thought. At least Sam had played, had cried - had spoken about her, even if only for a few moments. All steps forward, from what little he knew.

He watched Sam’s face, lit up strangely by the lamp he was holding, painted in orange and shadow. Dean burned to help him, to pull out a magic wand and fix it all…

Suddenly, Dean frowned. He’d been lost in thought, barely seeing what was in front of his own eyes, but now he saw it. Across Sam’s cheek was a stripe of another light - a light that didn't come from the orange lamp.

A light of a different colour. A strange, ethereal blue; a spectral shade that sent a sudden chill up Dean’s spine.

As Dean watched, the light only grew stronger and brighter on Sam's face. And now that Dean listened, senses heightening as his caution deepened to fear, he became suddenly aware of a silence all around them - a silence that went beyond simple lack of noise. An eerie, unnatural stillness that ate up the wind rustling the leaves, and the calls of the night birds.

A stillness that _swallowed_.

And then, from behind where Dean and Sam were sitting - a soft, quiet sound, that Dean recognised with every hair on the back of his neck on end. The sound of an exhale.

Behind them, something _breathed._

Dean clenched his fists, casting a glance over at Sam, who had noticed nothing. He wished he’d brought a weapon - a knife from the kitchen, anything. He’d never felt unsafe in the village before in his life.

The sound, again. A little closer, still so soft that Dean only heard it because all other noise had been extinguished by the deathly stillness.

Slowly, Dean turned his head.

He could feel his heartbeat thudding, his breath coming heavy, as though time itself were slowing down. There was a coldness in the air, and a scent like fresh water - and more, like lightning, like rolling dark cloud thick with rain, like pure elemental power. As he turned, Dean found his gaze travelling, travelling, until it found itself climbing the lengths of a long, dark cloak, reaching up the torso of a shadowed, terrible figure, and landing finally upon a face - white, with blue eyes that sparked a deathly, azure fire, wearing an expression that ran deeper than the cold depths of the darkest seas. It was wearing a crown of iron spikes upon its head, with two points that ran down the length of sharp, angular cheekbones. Its expression was forbidding, its aura powerful and utterly otherworldly.

Dean reached out, and gripped Sam’s arm.

He tried to speak, and failed. His lips were trying to form words. He could feel himself sweating, shaking, breath sawing.

The figure stared at him, blackness swirling around its body, the orange light of the lamp sucked into its gravity of dark.

“Forgive me,” the figure said, in a voice as deep as tombstones cracking. Dean felt Sam whip round, flinching at the sound of the unexpected voice. “I did not want to interrupt.”

Dean stared and stared, trying to understand what he was seeing. He could feel every nerve in his body trembling, every muscle poised for flight, his blood pounding in his head. His grip on Sam’s arm grew tighter.

“Who - who - who are you?” Dean managed to say, his throat tight, lips trembling. The figure towered over them, where they sat. “What do you want?”

Sam was silent, unmoving, as though unable to believe his eyes. Dean couldn’t think, his brain frozen in terror. The figure was utterly still, too - still as a dark, dying star was still, swallowing light and warmth from all around it.

“I am Hades,” the figure said. Its eyes, cold and deep, lingered on Dean’s face. Its expression did not change, not even when Dean gave a little involuntary moan of fear. “The Lord of the Underworld.”

Dean’s jaw was locked, his head shaking slightly from side to side in denial of the evidence of his own two eyes.

“Be not afraid,” Hades said. “I wish only to speak with you.”

 _Hades._ Lord of the Underworld. Standing before them. Sceptre in hand. Ready to strike them both down...

Dean could feel his arm moving, trying to push Sam behind him. He was breathing too fast, and his heart was thumping too  hard… _got to protect Sam._ He rolled onto the balls of his feet, putting his body between Sam and - and - _Hades._

“Speak with me, then,” he said, as bravely as he could. straightening up slowly on legs that didn't feel like his own. “Let - let Sam go.”

“Sam?” Hades said, and Dean cursed his own stupidity. Names had power.

“Y-Yes,” he said, trying to think fast. “And - and I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.” _Take my name, focus on me._ “What are you - what do you want?” A sudden memory stirred. He fumbled into his pocket, reaching for the coins. With trembling fingers, he held them out to Hades, who was too far away to see them clearly - but Dean wasn’t going to step any closer. “Th-these? I’m sorry, I was panning in the river, I shouldn’t have taken them - but it was me, OK, it was _me_ , just let Sam -”

With a swift, graceful movement, Hades lifted his hand and curved his fingers, beckoning the coins. They left Dean’s hand as though caught on an iron wave, and soared into Hades’ palm. Dean swallowed hard, and stopped talking. The magic had felt like a cold burn over his fingers.

“What - what…” Sam murmured. He’d managed to stand, too, and Dean reached back to squeeze his arm, hard, to stop him speaking. The less talking Sam did in front of - _Hades_ \- the better. Maybe that way, one of them would make it out of this alive. Would walk out of this cool, silent graveyard with their soul intact. Dean could barely spare a moment to desperately wonder how, _how, why,_ before Hades’ attention had snapped away from the coins and back to him.

“You had these all along?” Hades said, and Dean nodded. Hades went still for a long, quiet moment, and then he threw the coins to the ground with a whipcrack noise, like lightning striking.

Dean flinched, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed so that he wouldn’t cry out. Sam was rigid with fear behind him. Dean could feel actual tears of fear rising into his eyes, and breathed in and out furiously, trying to be calm.

“Please,” Dean said. “Please. Please, just - just don’t…”

Hades looked up at him, and blinked. Dean watched the shadows around his figure recede and shorten, and the look in his eyes lost its sharp edge.

“I will not hurt you,” he said. “I only - I felt drawn to you. This coin, it’s for me.”

“I know,” Dean said, a little wildly. “I know I shouldn’t have taken it…”

Hades seemed to be paying him no attention.

“This is why I was drawn here,” he said, and the look in his eyes told Dean that the words were not spoken for his benefit. “Not…”

Dean watched Hades let out a sigh, his brows drawn down. He didn’t understand what Hades was saying, only wanted him to go, to leave them, to let them live, _please..._

“So - you’re not here about Jess?” said a voice from behind Dean’s shoulder.

Dean closed his eyes, willing it to be a nightmare from which he could wake. When he opened his eyes, Hades was lifting his head, and turning his eyes to Sam. Dean shuddered, and tried to block his gaze by moving to stand between them.

“Jess?” Hades said, saying the word as though it were unfamiliar to him, some foreign spell or incantation. Dean thought he felt the air around them shift and bend - or perhaps the ground on which they stood moved slightly.

And Sam was suddenly pushing past Dean, speaking again, his voice pitched higher than usual with fear and his hands clenched hard into fists. Dean reached for Sam, snatched at his shirt, but could not stop him from speaking.

“Sam… !”

“Please,” Sam said. “Jess. You must know her. She was - she was - she died. You _took_ her. Please, give her back. _Please…_ ”

Sam stuttered into silence as Hades’ expression shifted, becoming once again more forbidding, more terrifying. His sceptre crackled angrily. Dean tugged furiously at Sam, pulling his little brother backwards.

“I cannot bring back the dead,” Hades said, and when he spoke, Dean thought he could hear a note of sadness in his voice beneath the cruel austerity. “I did not come here to be petitioned.” He made a move as if to leave, but Sam spoke again, and he paused.

“Please,” Sam said again, from behind Dean. “You don’t understand. I loved her…”

Hades’ expression did not change. Dean felt sick with fear. Would Hades so much as frown when he cast them into the Underworld?

“You are the one who does not understand,” Hades said. There was a hint of anger to his voice now, and it made Dean quake. “There are rules that cannot be broken. Not even for love.”

“Please…”

“I _cannot_ ,” Hades said sharply.

“Sammy, come on, just - just leave it -” Dean tried, but Sam ignored him.

“Then why did you come? What are you here for? Please, I’ll do anything,” Sam said, his voice cracking on the last word. He pushed forwards again, his determination turning Dean’s attempts to hold him back into the batting of moth wings against him. “I’ll do anything to save her. Please -”

“No,” Dean said, tugging at Sam’s shirt. The world seemed to be spinning around Dean, his head light and his feet unsteady beneath him. “No, you _won’t_ . Stop this, Sammy. Come _on_ …”

But Sam would not be moved. Dean pulled fruitlessly at his arm, staring at his brother’s profile, but he was made of rock.

“Why did you come here?” Sam said again, more loudly. “Why did you _come_?”

Even Dean halted his attempts to pull Sam away, at the look on his brother's face. Sam’s eyes were wide and honest with pain, wanting _so_ badly to understand, and to find a way...

Hades’ expression seemed to shift, ever so slightly.

“I -” he said, and then paused. He seemed caught off-guard. “I - I sought someone.”

“Maybe we can help you find them,” Sam said wildly, pushing away Dean’s hands. “Maybe -”

“No,” Hades said, silencing Sam. “You cannot help me find them. They do not exist.”

“They don’t… exist?” Sam said. Dean stepped forwards, closer to Hades. If he could not put Sam behind him, then he would move in front of Sam. And if - if they were going to try to talk to Hades, and get Jess back - Dean couldn’t see that they had any chance at all, but if they were going to try, then it would be _him_ who would do the talking.

 

 

“Who were they? This person?” he said, asking the first question that came into his head. Sam tried to push him back, but had as much success at restraining his brother as Dean had had before. Hades seemed unaware of their jostling, remaining a point of pure stillness in front of them, untouchable.

He weighed Dean for a long, long moment, looking him up and down. There were the eyes that would judge his worth after death, Dean couldn’t help remembering. There were the eyes that would determine where he would spend all of eternity, the hands that would draw his last breath from his lungs…

“I should not,” Hades said, his voice implacable as ever. “And yet - what's one more bad decision now? You can’t aid me less than Hera…”

Dean could sense Sam trying to keep up, looking for any opening. For himself, he only wanted Hades to _leave_ , but did not dare suggest it and risk causing offence...

“Persephone,” Hades said, after a pause. “I sought Persephone.” The force of his words was incredible; the power of his focus beyond unnerving. Dean could feel his legs shaking beneath him, begging him to kneel. He tried to concentrate on the conversation as best he could.

“P-Persephone,” he repeated blankly, not understanding. “Is she missing?”

“She is dead,” said Hades. Dean stared at him, mouth open, numb to further horror - and yet aware, somewhere inside himself, that this was perhaps the worst thing Hades had said yet. Persephone - dead?

“Wait - what? But what will happen in Spring?” Sam said, finally stopping his attempts to pull Dean away. “What - what about the crops, what about -”

“It is not bad that she died,” Hades interrupted - though for a single moment as the blue light flashed and caught Hades’ face at a certain angle, Dean thought that maybe those cold, divine eyes spoke otherwise. “It is... the way of things. The name lives on after her, and another mortal takes her place, becomes the god. That is how it has been since the beginning…”

Dean could only stare, and stare, a rushing sound in his ears. The gods - were mortal? Or used to be mortal?

“Only now it is broken,” Hades said. “ _I_ am broken. I cannot find the next Persephone. I have searched everywhere, but no one calls to me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Missouri said it would be simple, but it isn’t. And Hera said that if I don’t find a Persephone before the Panathenaia, then I will be stripped of my divinity…”

“Stripped of your… ?”

“Put to death,” Hades said bleakly. He blinked, and seemed to remember where he was, and to whom he was speaking. “I...  will have to take these memories from you, before departing. Not that anyone would believe you, I doubt…”

“So you - you were looking for a new Persephone?” Sam said - and just like that, like lightning striking, Dean had an idea. An idea that made him want to bury himself in the dirt he was standing on, but - an _idea._ Hades was going to die, unless he had a Persephone, which meant that he was desperate, and… and that meant…

Dimly, Dean heard Sam say, “You lost someone you loved, too?”

“Wait,” Dean said aloud, thinking furiously. Hades didn’t answer Sam’s question, turning to face Dean at once. Dean felt sick to his stomach with fear, but - but - he _had_ to speak. “Wait. Did you say - did you say... _the_ Persephone, or _a_ Persephone?”

Hades went very, very quiet, his expression stern.

“What does that mean?” he said, a cold demand. Dean almost lost his nerve, heart pounding - but then Sam shifted behind him. Dean remembered what he stood to gain - what he could do, if this worked -

“I mean, does the new, uh, new Persephone, the one you’re looking for, does it… have to be one specific person? Does it have to be a woman? Or could it be anyone? Because if you need - if it can be any mortal, then - then -” He swallowed hard, threw half a glance back over his shoulder at Sam. “Then _I’ll_ do it.”

The hush that drew in around them was absolute. For a moment, there was no one in the world but Hades and Dean, staring at each other, trying to understand the words that had just been spoken.

“Dean, what -” Sam said, but Dean elbowed him into silence.

“It’s impossible,” murmured Hades, but there was an expression on his face that told Dean he was, at least, considering it. “It’s impossible… to lie about this, to say that I answered your call…”

“Well, maybe the real Persephone is just - just busy,” Dean said. He glanced at Sam, who was staring at him as though trying to figure out what kind of game he was playing. His insides felt like ice. _It’s not a trick, Sam._ “Maybe you just need someone to, uh. To pretend to be her. Or… him. Them. For a short time. Maybe - you said the, uh, the Panathenaia?”

“If I have no Persephone at the Panathenaia, I will be killed,” Hades agreed, stating a simple fact, with his eyes far away. “And yet…”

“If you do,” Dean finished for him, “you’ll live, right? You’ll make it through.”

“Dean, what -?” Sam said, but Dean shot him another quick look over his shoulder, silencing him.

Hades was watching him, a look on his face that was too blank to be read.

“You would do this,” he asked Dean, his voice flat. “Truly?”

“I...” Dean said, the word hoarse. _Sam, Jess. Sam and Jess._ “I would.” Hades’ eyes sparked, lit up. Dean cleared his throat, and spoke again. “For a price.”

Sam was tugging on Dean’s shirt; Dean ignored him as best he could.

“A price,” Hades said. “What price?”

Dean stared at him, barely able to believe that this was happening - that he was standing here, in the graveyard, bargaining with the Lord of the Underworld himself. For a moment, he felt his courage shake again. _Sam, lying in his room. Sam, wracked by nightmares. Sam._

“Jess,” Dean said, and felt his brother freeze behind him. “Jess. I want Jess back. Alive.”

Hades’ expression seemed tense, caught between a thousand thoughts. Dean could feel the muscles in his arms aching from holding himself together, not shaking too much or breaking down. He focused on breathing, slowly.

“Dean -” Sam said, again. “Dean, you can’t seriously -”

“There are rules that cannot be broken,” Hades said again, like a litany. “And yet…” Dean’s heart leapt. “There is - I do know of one way. Only one. I may grant you leave to enter the Underworld yourself,” he said, speaking to Sam. “You may cross the Styx and find your… _Jess._ And you may lead her out of the Underworld.” Dean was already turning to look at Sam, his expression triumphant, when Hades spoke again, more harshly than before. “But if you should look back to see her before you leave the Underworld, you will both be cast into Hell, for eternity. I will not be able to stop this, nor to save you. This is the rule. Do you understand?”

Dean turned to look at Sam, and saw the confusion on his face - the conflict.

“Sammy,” Dean said. “What are you waiting for?”

“Dean…” Sam said, starting to shake his head.

“You can get her back,” Dean said, gripping Sam’s shoulder. Behind him, he could feel Hades watching their every move. “Sam, you can get Jess back _._ If you just - don’t look back on the way out of, uh, the Underworld?” It was too much for him to say, too big for him to be able to take in. He could feel himself shaking, his skin buzzing with the strength of his emotion. “You can get her _back._ ”

“But - but you - you’ll have to -” Sam gestured behind Dean towards Hades.

“Be Persephone?” Dean said, pulling a smile as best he could, even as his heart misgave him. “Nah, it’s nothing, right?”

“You will have to come with me to the Underworld,” Hades said, his voice a sonant shadow. Dean turned his head to watch Hades, feeling as though a great weight were resting over his lungs, stopping his breath. “Until the Panathenaia, you will have to stay with me, below the land, in the Kingdom of the Dead. You may not ascend to the mortal realm, nor speak with any mortal, until you return home - after I have found the true Persephone.”

Dean managed to swallow. He didn’t turn back to look at Sam, not wanting to show his younger brother any of the fear that he was feeling. Sam - Sam _had_ to get Jess back. Dean was doing this, Underworld or no Underworld.

“Dean,” Sam said, more firmly. “Dean, you’re not doing this. You can’t go to the _Underworld_.”

Dean took a moment to compose himself, and then turned back to Sam. He tried to smile.

“You want to bet?” he said. When Sam opened his mouth, Dean held up a pacifying hand. “Sam, come on. If there’s even a shot at getting Jess back… we have to try, don’t we? She’s family, man. We have to _try._ ” His mouth wanted to turn down, tears of fear wanted to fall, but he held them in as best he could. He kept rolling over it in his mind, trying to comprehend the scale of what he was considering - no, what he was _going_ to do. He spoke again, his voice coming out a little too thin with worry, gesturing at the still figure of Hades. “Sam, how many chances like this are we gonna get?”

“No, Dean…” Sam said, and Dean could see in the strange, blueish light from Hades’ sceptre that his eyes were starting to fill up. “Dean, I can’t - I can’t - I can’t lose you too? Please, there’s gotta be something else…” Sam said, looking to Hades. “Please. Something else - anything else - or, or take me as the Persephone instead…”

“No,” Dean said, turning back to Hades, his expression cast-iron. “ _No._ It’s me or it’s neither of us.”

Hades gazed at them, his expression impassive. Sam and Dean waited on his words, Dean holding his breath.

“The Persephone traditionally possesses a connection with Hades,” Hades said, slowly. “I - I sense nothing divine from either of you. But with you…” He looked at Dean, and then broke off. “It would be more convincing, I think, if you were to be the Persephone.”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “No. No, no - Dean, please - please, I can’t lose you, too. I _can’t._ ”

“Hey,” Dean said, pulling Sam into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Reality seemed to be swirling around him strangely, and he was disconnected from his own words, his own body. “Hey. You’re not going to lose me. OK? I’m gonna be back before you know it. I’ll just stay with - with Hades - until I can come home. It won’t be long. Panathenaia is this weekend, isn’t it? And you’ll get Jess back, right?” He pulled out of the hug, holding Sam’s shoulders in his hands. He was speaking fast, almost gabbling, in case Hades lost patience before Sam agreed. “Listen, we can’t get Jess back, only for you to be stuck in the Underworld waiting for Persephone to show up. Me, I’m OK with it.” He felt his throat close up briefly, and nodded hard. “I’m OK with it,” he said again. “If you two are - if you two are happy - and I’ll be home to see you soon - then, uh. It’s all like it should be.”

“Dean…” Sam was crying, now, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Dean… what if - what if you don’t…”

“Hey,” Dean said again, squeezing Sam’s shoulders. He smiled bravely, and Sam shook his head.

“It should be me,” he said. “Dean, it should be _me_.”

“Well,” Dean said, “when the love of my life needs rescuing from the Underworld, it’s you I’ll be asking for help. How about that?”

Sam lifted his shoulders. The decision was too big, too hard for one person to make. Part of Dean wanted Sam to beg him not to go - but it was only the part of him that was scared. It was the right thing to go, and he knew it.

“It’s not your decision to make,” Dean said. “This isn’t on you. It’s on me. And I’m going, Sammy.”

He turned back to face Hades before Sam could make any protest. Hades was watching them, his face blank. Dean couldn’t tell if he was tired by their talking, or nervous that Dean would pull out of the bargain.

Well, either way - his wait was about to come to an end.

“I’ll do it,” Dean said.

Hades inclined his head. He raised a hand, and from nowhere - from the shadows that swirled and curved around him - he drew out a piece of parchment and a black feather quill.

“A contract must be made,” Hades said, writing quickly. “There are rules.” He pointed the end of the quill at Sam. “Your full name?” he demanded.

Sam didn’t speak immediately, and so Dean answered for him.

“He’s Sam Winchester,” he said. “My younger brother.”

“And the full name of… Jess?”

“Jessica,” Dean said, and felt Sam flinch beside him. “Jessica Moore.”

Hades’ face was solemn as he nodded, and then went back to writing. After a few moments, he paused, stared at the parchment for a split second longer - and then sent it with a flick of his fingertips over to Dean, who caught it gingerly. The thin material felt strange under his fingers, thrumming with power, and the dark ink of the writing had flicks of light blue magic dripping slowly between the letters.

_We, the undersigned, do agree that the mortal Dean Winchester shall play the Persephone, until such time as the true Persephone might emerge or after the Panathenaia, whichever is sooner; at which time Dean Winchester shall be safely sent back to his home, sound in body and in mind. In return, there shall be granted a single safe passage into and out of the Underworld for one soul. This passage shall be granted to Sam Winchester, brother of Dean Winchester. Further, Sam Winchester will be allowed to lead no more than one soul, that of Jessica Moore, out of the Underworld. If he should look back at her before they exit the Underworld, then shall the lovers be cast back into Hell together, there to stay forever, with no bargaining, no pleading, and no exceptions. This is a rule that may not be broken._

Underneath the ornate lettering, there was a signature - too strange and looping for Dean to be able to read, but it didn’t look like ‘Hades’. He barely had time to pause over that, before he felt a gentle nudge at his hand - the feather quill, wanting to be used. It hovered in the air, unmoving, as though looking up at him. Dean watched it for a moment. All of the stories he knew about the gods said that they weren’t to be trusted, that they were arrogant, that they thought themselves above the rules. Making an agreement and signing his life away to one of them - it wasn’t wise.

Dean plucked the quill from the air. Zeus only knew he’d never expected to win any prizes for wisdom.

“Dean…” he heard Sam say. “Dean -”

He took a deep breath. He knew that if he looked at Sam, now, Sam would tell him to stop again - would think it was his responsibility to tell Dean not to go. Dean couldn’t lay that at his door.

“It’ll be OK,” he said, not sure if he was speaking to himself or to Sam. “It’ll be OK.”

Without looking at Sam once, Dean circled the quill over the parchment, let out a slow, shaky breath - and then wrote in his name, next to Hades’.

“It is decided,” Hades said. He snapped his fingers and the contract rolled itself up into nothing, the quill twisting away into a coil of smoke. Dean looked at him bleakly.

“What now?” he said.

Hades’ gaze was heavy on Dean, giving him a strange, cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Thinking about the decision that he was making - that he’d _made,_ he corrected himself numbly, the feeling of the quill still fresh in his hand - gave him the sensation of looking out over a huge precipice, a great gaping void, that he’d just agreed to leap out into.

“We return to the Underworld,” Hades said. The expression on his face was blank as an unchiselled tombstone, bearing no hint of sadness, no understanding of the cost of Dean’s choice. Dean realised that he was breathing too hard, like he was running, and there was a drop of sweat running down the side of his face.

He held himself still, so that he wouldn’t turn to Sam with fear in his eyes, and let out a slow, long breath. He loosened his shoulders. _It is decided,_ he told himself, in the quiet space inside his own head. _It’s already decided. Now I just have to do it._

“How -” he said aloud, and then his tight throat cut up his words and swallowed them back down. He exhaled again. Another drop of sweat on his cheek. Or - or perhaps it was a tear? Dean grimaced and clenched his jaw furiously, jerking his head from one side to the other, barely feeling in control of his own movements, his own body. He forced his voice to belong to him. “How do we get there?”

Hades swept his cloak to one side, a movement sudden in grace yet heavy in speed. He raised his sceptre - Dean watched his pale knuckles whiten further as he gripped it hard - and then he lowered it, slower than he should and with more obvious effort, as though he were working against a force that Dean could not see -

The tip of the sceptre touched the ground. Dean could have sworn he heard the whisper of its metal point against the soft blades of the grass.

For a single moment, there was stillness. Dean sensed Sam moving beside him, and began to put out his arm, wanting to keep Sam behind him - and then, in a rush, with a great, otherworldly gasp of hungry earth, a maw big enough to swallow him, and Hades, and ten other people besides, yawned open in the ground before them. It was a gentle slope of soil that already seemed to beg for the press of Dean’s feet as he descended; he could see no further than a few yards into it, since there was no light inside it, no promise of a destination, only a blackness that went down, down, down, down, down…

Dean stared into it, his limbs shaking, his mouth open and his breath huffing in and out, in and out, as though his lungs were offering him frantic and arrhythmic reminders that for now, at least, for now, he was still alive.

Dean looked up at Hades, whose expression had not changed an inch.

“In - in there?” he said, barely managing to raise his voice above a whisper.

Hades inclined his head.

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder, and froze under Sam’s touch. He steeled himself, gritted his teeth and blinked hard, and then turned to look at his younger brother.

Sam was white as chalk and trembling, and shaking his head.

“I won't let you do this,” he said, the panic in his eyes like a cruel shine. “You - Dean, don’t -” Sam’s voice seemed to give out. He dropped his head, long hair hiding his face.

Dean raised one of his hands, and placed it again on Sam’s shoulder. The feel of his younger brother’s jacket was surreal for its normality, the same time-roughened canvas that he’d scrubbed with his own hands, over and over.

“Look at me,” he said, and Sam hesitated for a long moment, and then raised his head. He met Dean’s eyes, his expression caught between guilt, and fear, and confusion. Dean opened his mouth, trying to find the right words. “Sam,” he began. He clenched his hand tighter on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy, do you really think there’s anything that could stop me coming home?” He tried to believe his own words as he spoke them, tried to feel the iron certainty that he wanted to show. “Listen to me. OK? Even if it all goes wrong, I’ll come back. I’ll crawl out of the damn Underworld with my bare hands to make it back to you. Understand? You are not losing me. I’ll come back for you.” He made sure his voice was steady, even though he was shaking inside. Sam was shaking his head.

“Dean, I can’t let you -”

“You aren’t letting me do anything,” Dean said, shaking Sam’s shoulder just a little. “OK? This is _my_ choice. I’m doing this for Jess. Just like you would, in my place. Right?”

“But you -”

“I want to do this, Sam. Look at me and tell me another way we could ever get her back. Look at me and tell me that this isn’t our only chance. She’s worth me staying a little while underground. Isn’t she?”

Dean clenched his jaw and waited for Sam’s tiny nod, before squeezing his brother’s shoulder and turning away.

He looked to Hades, who was as unchangeable as stone.

“I’m -” he tried, and lost his nerve. He cleared his throat, somehow able to feel every inch of his skin and yet being utterly numb. “I’m ready,” he said.

Hades blinked, slowly, and then held out his arm.

“Then we descend,” he said, his words echoing like grand hollow halls, like empty corridors.

Dean stepped forward to stand beside him on legs of jelly, feeling too weak and too small and too - too _alive_ to stand beside Hades, in his alabaster and ebony stillness. He looked down to the place where the earth dropped away, only a step from where he stood. The gaping mouth of the pit seemed to sigh, exhaling dryness and dust and utter, near-solid blackness.

The dark horror in Dean’s mind bared its teeth, a silent roar of fear and cruel inevitability.

He lifted a shaking hand, and placed it on Hades’ outstretched arm. He looked up into Hades’ face, and was met with a cold pale cheek, and blue-fire eyes that gazed firmly ahead. Dean swallowed, and faced forwards, too.

Together, they took a step towards the Underworld.

“Dean -” said Sam. “Dean, be careful -”

Dean turned to look over his shoulder at Sam, and managed to dredge from the depths of himself a small, steady smile.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” he said. “I’m gonna make it alright.”

Sam seemed to breathe in - seemed about to walk forwards. Dean knew that look on his brother’s face; he knew, deep down, that Sam would never be able to let him go down to the Underworld. Of course, Sam would try to stop him when it came to the final moment.

But Dean could not let himself be stopped. Before his brother could do more than take a single step, Dean tightened his grip on Hades’ arm, and wrenched himself forwards.

One step, another, another, the earth soft under his boots. Hades kept silent, graceful, powerful pace. Dean could hear the soil shifting around them, groaning and dry - and the last he heard of the world above was Sam’s final shout, a single, desperate cry of -

" _Dean!”_

And then the earth closed.

All was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the art in this chapter was done by the amazing [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com). you can find the art masterpost [here!!](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/148786173695/bittersweet-heart-art-masterpost) if you have a moment, please go and give her some love!!


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel walked into the tunnel with the man - Dean - holding his arm, looking straight ahead. He could feel the weight of Dean’s hand on his skin; it was only the lightest of presses through his cloak, and yet still, it was - quietly staggering, after years upon years of knowing no mortal touch.

Castiel made no comment. He turned his thoughts to more important things.

He couldn’t decide whether he had been wise or foolish to accept this bargain. He had seen with his own eyes the struggle that Dean had undergone in in his decision, his human features arranging and rearranging themselves at a speed that Castiel could hardly keep up with - and though the speed and lightness of Dean’s emotions was something that Castiel could not match, he felt he understood the underlying uncertainty. Had he done wrong, to agree to let the younger brother come searching for his lost love? There was a precedent, he knew… it had been done before. He could not be punished by Zeus for repeating history; that was the entire purpose of their existence.

There was, however, a second and more pressing weakness in his plan: the fact that in his heart, in his head, from the top of him to the bottom, he was entirely empty of any sensation of having found what he needed, of having discovered his prize.

Dean was not - could not be - the true Persephone. Castiel felt nothing for him, other than perhaps a little fascination.

At the Panathenaia, when Castiel presented Dean to the other gods, there would have to be - there would have to be something between them. A connection; a sympathy. At first, of course, the feeling between Hades and Persephone had been that of lovers, but over the course of the years, a hundred different pairings had loved each other in a hundred different ways. Missouri and Castiel had always loved each other like family. Even still, they  _ had  _ loved each other, and at once, and deeply, falling into the steady footsteps of those who had walked the path before them. He and Dean, on the other hand…

If they didn’t seem close at the Panathenaia, if there was a distance between them, then they would be suspected. Particularly by Hera, who was only waiting for a chance to tear him down, as Castiel knew now all too well. They would have to be so, so careful. They would have to pretend to feel - to feel love for each other, to be as close as Hades and Persephone should be.

Of course, they could just pretend to love each other like family.  It didn’t necessarily have to be - Castiel stumbled over his own thoughts. He risked a quick glance over at Dean, seeing by the blue light of his sceptre; Dean was oblivious to him, his eyes on the walls of the dark tunnel, his expression utterly terrified. Castiel realised, looking at him, how much Dean had been holding himself in restraint, before. The emotions that Castiel had seen on his face - the ones that he’d thought were great waves of feeling - had been ripples, in comparison.

“You are - more afraid, now that we are alone?” he ventured to say. Dean started at the sound of his voice, and Castiel only just stopped himself from apologising. He frowned to himself. He was a  _ god.  _ He did not need to make apologies to humans. It was good, it was  _ right  _ that Dean feared him.

“N-no,” Dean said, and Castiel could hear the effort to sound defiant in his voice. Against his own will, he felt a little catch of dry humour, almost - almost warmth, in his chest. “No, I’m not more scared.”

“You  _ look _ more scared,” Castiel observed. Dean clenched up his jaw, just like he had done back in the graveyard. Castiel raised an eyebrow, just a fraction.

“Well, I was - Sam was there,” Dean said. “He wouldn’t have let me go, if he’d known I was - was - you know.”

Castiel watched Dean for a longer moment than, perhaps, he should have done. The walk back to the Underworld was certainly slower with a mortal in tow, but it was more interesting, too.

“You wanted to seem brave for your brother,” he said. Dean threw him a look that Castiel thought was trying to be scathing, but which melted into fear when he caught sight of Castiel’s sceptre, his tallness, his strength. Castiel raised his chin, to increase the effect, and Dean ducked his head.

“Yeah,” was all Dean said, eventually, in reply.

“In the Halls of the Dead, there will be no one to perform to,” Castiel said. He realised that Dean was having to half-run to keep up with his slow, effortless stride, and shortened his step, making sure that his paces were even so that Dean could match them. “We will be alone. But at the Panathenaia, all the gods will be at Olympus, watching us. It is good that you know how to pretend.”

“What - what - what am I trying to convince them?” Dean said. “The - the gods?” Castiel drew in a long, slow breath, wondering how to explain.  _ I need you to pretend to be in love with me  _ seemed too strange, too immediate; even Castiel, after all his years of separation from humanity, could hear the absurdity of saying that to a person he had only just met.

_ Not necessarily ‘in love’,  _ he reminded himself.  _ Just love.  _

That didn’t seem hugely better.

Castiel realised that too much time had passed since Dean had spoken his question for Castiel to be able to reply to it naturally. Watching his profile, Castiel did not think that Dean seemed hugely troubled by his silence; understandable, Castiel thought, given that there were other, probably more pressing problems on his mind. He tried to remember how he’d felt when he had made his own first journey down into the Underworld. Scared, yes. His heart had been thudding fit to beat out of his chest. But he, at least, had had Missouri. She had spoken kindly to him.

“I - I want you to know that I will not hurt you,” Castiel tried, awkwardly. “You will be safe.”

Dean looked at him, and there was no trust in his eyes. They had no bond to speak through, no connection. Castiel could only look back at him, and hope that his gaze spoke more convincingly than his words.

After a moment, Dean broke their stare, and looked down at his feet. They walked onwards. Castiel didn’t know if Dean felt reassured. He raised his chin, and kept walking. He’d tried, at least. That was more than enough. More than most of the other gods would have done.

He could sense the end of the tunnel drawing closer, their nearness to the Underworld resonating in his bones. There was a change in the quality of the dark; the gloom widened, yawned, preparing to sink them down yet further.

“Do we have to walk the whole way there?” Dean said, beside him. He still had his hand on Castiel’s arm.

“No,” Castiel said. He realised after a moment that Dean was staring at him, waiting for more. He cleared his throat. “We will soon reach the Styx - the river of the dead. The ferryman will take us across.”

“The Styx? Will I lose my memory when we cross?”

“No,” Castiel said shortly. “You are thinking of the Lethe river. That is on the other side of the Underworld, on the second plane, between the Halls of the Dead and Elysium.”

“Oh.” Dean paused. “Do you have to go across the river in the boat like everyone else? I thought it was just the people who died who had to go in it.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but Castiel threw him a quelling look, and Dean’s expression of curiosity quickly receded back into the blankness of anxious tension.

Castiel relented. He was not used to being asked questions, but Dean was not used to travelling to the lands of the dead, and since he was not the true Persephone, he did not have centuries of past knowledge unfurling inside his mind. It was natural that he would want to know, Castiel thought.

Annoying, yes, but natural.

“When travelling alone, I can cross the river in a thought,” he said. “But you are mortal, and you cannot.”

“A thought?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, his patience tested.

“And you’re staying with me because -”

“I can leave you behind, if you prefer,” Castiel said harshly, and Dean shook his head, returning to silence. Castiel closed his eyes for a beat. This plan was looking more and more foolish by the second. He was almost tempted to turn around and deliver Dean back to the surface now, rather than let it go on any longer. He’d let Sam come and look for his lost love, as promised, and then accept his fate at the Panathenaia. It was coming for him anyway, after all. He and Dean quite obviously had no connection, and it was only going to get worse…

“Thank you,” Dean said, suddenly. “For staying with me.”

Castiel looked at him, caught off-guard.

“I did not think you would want to be alone,” he said, in a low voice. Dean nodded, looking around at the dark, shifting walls of the earthen tunnel.

“I - I wouldn’t,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

Castiel watched him for a long moment. He’d seen in Dean’s eyes how scared he was of Castiel, of his power, his potential to do harm. How scared he must be, then, of being left alone. More terrified than scared.

Castiel let his head tilt slightly to one side.

“Then I will not leave you,” he said, and this time, his words of reassurance seemed to connect to Dean. His shoulders loosened, just a fraction.

Castiel nodded to himself, and they pressed onwards.

_ Maybe,  _ Castiel thought to himself.  _ Maybe. _

The tunnel kept falling down, down through the earth, slipping through layers of rock and planes of existence, the power of the sceptre dropping them further and faster than any mortal passage could have taken them. Finally, Castiel and Dean took a last step, and were sighed out of the tunnel onto a thin spit of land, the ground beneath their feet as dry as the dust of ancient bones.

Castiel turned to look at Dean, to see if he was impressed. Dean was standing utterly still, his mouth hanging open, and Castiel smiled to himself before turning back to the view.

It was certainly an impressive sight, even after so long to become acclimatised to its magnificence. The waters of the river Styx flowed silent and steady through a cavern more vast and wide than any Dean might have seen in his life, surely - bigger than the graveyard, bigger than his whole town, and too tall for the ceiling to be clearly visible. There was only a dim, distant blackness, pierced across its swathe by lines of dark shine that waved and curved like the thread of the galaxy across the sky in the world above; gatherings of crystals that grew sharp and strong, untouched by any hand - living or dead. The Styx itself had light, strange rainbows that danced on its darkly pearlescent waters; this was light that was millennia old, reflected and split and reflected again, until it barely remembered that it was light at all - only thought of itself as darkness, darkness with colour. All was in silence.

“What do you think?” Castiel couldn’t help asking Dean, who didn’t tear his eyes away long enough to look back at Castiel.

“It’s… so strange,” Dean said. “But it - it’s -” He couldn’t seem to find the right word. 

Castiel did not press him. Instead, he stepped forwards, bringing Dean with him. They walked together along the spit of land, two tiny moving figures in a wide, wide world of utter stillness.

Except - Castiel felt Dean tense - there, on the surface of the Styx at the end of the dust-covered, earthen pier - a shimmer. Castiel blinked as the air seemed to unfold like a curtain, drawing back to reveal a single, small, dark boat. At the stern, holding a long pole, there stood a silent figure.

Dean came to a halt, his hand tight on Castiel’s arm. He had his eyes fixed on the figure - the ferryman, who only stood completely still, as was the way of the Underworld. It wore a long cloak, similar to Castiel’s, though perhaps more worn, less ornate. The hood was drawn up, covering the figure’s face completely. Only its hands were visible, deep brown and unmoving, holding the black pole that would push Castiel and Dean across the Styx and over to the Halls of the Dead.

“We must get into the boat,” Castiel said.

“It’s -” Dean began, his voice shaking again. “It’s just - when I go across - am I going to die?”

Castiel was taken aback, and shook his head. Dean watched him, waiting for an explanation.

“You are my guest in the Underworld,” Castiel said, as gently as he could. “You do not have to die. The dead are in the river, not above it.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to place his hand over Dean’s in reassurance, and then decided against it. “It will not take long. The ferryman is fast at her work.”

He led Dean down to the water, and helped him into the boat. The ferryman made no movement, nor gave any sign that she was aware of the presence of people in her craft; nevertheless, when Castiel and Dean were both standing side by side and were stable, she unfolded her arms from her body and drove the pole in her hands into the water.

They moved off. Castiel could hear the waters of the Styx sighing around their vessel, disturbed by their progress. He looked over at Dean, who was watching the waters with wide eyes.

“Is it deep?” Dean asked. Castiel considered his question.

“For the dead, yes,” he said. “But it is longer than it is deep.”

“How long?”

“The length of life to afterlife,” Castiel said. “Long.”

Dean was quiet for some time. The waters made no noise, even as their silent guide ferried them across their surface.

“I can’t see anyone in the water,” Dean said. Castiel looked at him with a little wistfulness. He was remembering, just barely, what it felt like to be so naive.

“Only those touched by death can see the dead,” he said.

“Touched by death?”

“You would have to get into the water.”

“Oh,” Dean said. He looked down into the depths once more. “No, thank you.”

Castiel felt a small smile touch his lips.

“Can  _ you  _ see them?”

Castiel let out a breath, slowly. He looked down into the water once more, this time stretching his eyes, looking beyond the surface. There, floating silently, were endless still figures - quiet ghosts, eyes closed.

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“Are they - do they look…” Dean’s curiosity seemed endless, but even he didn’t seem to know what he wanted to know. Castiel blinked.

“They are peaceful,” he said, hazarding a guess. Dean’s expression lifted.

“All of them?”

“Yes. They are sleeping.”

“Oh.” Dean’s hand suddenly tightened on Castiel’s sleeve as a wavelet hit the side of the boat, unbalancing him slightly. Castiel himself was immovable. “Do they have to wake up?”

“Yes. At the far end of the river.”

“Will they still be… will they be peaceful, even then?”

“Not always,” Castiel said. “That is why they might chose to bathe in the Lethe. To wash away their memories.” Their craft was over halfway across the wide, wide river now.

“Do you have to go into it? The Lethe?”

“No. But many choose to.”

“Do - do you think Jess would have chosen to?”

Castiel was quiet.

“She died young, correct?” he said, and Dean nodded silently. “It is usually the old who have more to wash away. There is a chance that she will have chosen to keep her memories.”

“Is there any way to get them back, if…?”

Castiel shook his head.

“None.”

Dean did not speak again until they reached the bank on the other side of the river.

Castiel helped him out of the boat and back onto dry land. Dean turned to look at the ferryman, who turned her hooded head towards him impassively.

“Shouldn’t we pay her?” he asked Castiel, who raised his eyebrows just a fraction.

“You are with me,” he said. “There is no need to pay.”

“Oh,” Dean said. Castiel was getting used to him saying it. Dean turned to the ferryman and offered her a weak smile. “Thanks for the lift,” he said.

The ferryman was still for a moment, as if in surprise, and then inclined her head to accept his thanks.

Castiel wondered, briefly, what kind of a person he had brought down to the Underworld.

“Come,” he said. and Dean lost his smile. “The Halls of the Dead are not far from here.”

“Right,” Dean said. He sounded almost defiant - but defiant against whom, Castiel couldn’t help but wonder. Perhaps it gave Dean confidence.

Together, they continued on. Castiel started off walking too quickly, and only remembered after several steps that Dean struggled to keep pace with his natural speed. He slowed himself down once more.

The land on the far side of the river was quiet, of course, and still There were trees standing like monuments, leaves like dark diamonds resting along branches and boughs that looked to be coated in black velvet. Castiel gazed up into their foliage as they passed beneath, catching glimpses of the sparkling crystal ceiling far, far above. Dean followed his gaze, his expression infinitely more overwhelmed than Castiel’s.

“I’ve never done this before,” Castiel said, more suddenly than he’d intended. He paused, and took a moment to check himself. Dean looked over at him, frowning.

“Walked here?” he said. “Are we lost?”

“No, no,” Castiel said. “I meant, I have never shown anyone my lands before. The river, the forest. And you’ll see the halls, soon, too.”

Dean’s frown only deepened.

“You must have shown the Persephone before me,” he said. “The one who - who died?”

Castiel was quiet for a moment. Missouri’s death hurt him still; perhaps a little less, now, than before he’d gone out searching, but still more than any death should hurt the Lord of the Underworld.

“I did not,” he said quietly. “She showed me. That is how it works. A Hades finds a Persephone, who finds a Hades, who finds a Persephone, who finds a Hades… and so on.” He thought for a moment. “At least, that is how it is intended to work.”

“Huh,” Dean said. He was walking with his head down, keeping an eye out for the tree roots that bent up the dry, dark, almost iridescent earth beneath his feet. “But you - you screwed up the perfect system.”

“That’s a blunt way to put it,” Castiel said dryly. The occasional lapses in fearful respect were the times when Castiel actually found himself liking Dean best. “But - yes.”

“And that’s why I’m here. To make it seem like you didn’t screw it up.”

“That is what it said on the contract,” Castiel said, with a little bite. Dean looked up at him, nervousness returning to his expression. Castiel only noticed how much it had faded when it reappeared; he tried not to look forbidding, so that Dean would not be afraid again.

“I know,” Dean said. “I just - want to be sure that I understand.”

Castiel said nothing. They walked onwards in silence; for Castiel, who knew their destination, the journey did not seem too long - but for Dean, Castiel supposed, it must have seemed interminable. Finally, they pushed out through the end of the line of trees - and Dean came to a halt, losing his touch on Castiel’s arm for the first time in his sheer shock, mouth falling open.

The Halls of the Dead looked just as large from the outside as from the inside, though it hardly seemed possible. The front of it was a single, wide rectangle, impossibly tall; Castiel let his eyes roam over the familiar shape of it, all the way up to where the roof almost touched the crystal cave sky. There was a wide entrance with columns supporting a great entablature with a dark frieze and rolled, ornate cornices; each column was too wide for twenty mortals to be able to stand around and join hands. There were no windows; only occasional balconies, in the ever-empty guest rooms. Castiel looked up at his home, and then looked to Dean, and then looked back at his home. 

It was strange, he thought, how different it looked when he saw it through the eyes of someone new. It seemed at once more strange, and more familiar - like seeing his own face in the mirror, and being surprised by how well he knew it.

“You live here?” Dean said.

“I do,” Castiel confirmed.

Dean couldn’t seem to speak for a few moments. Castiel waited patiently.

“It’s very dark,” he said, at last.

Castiel frowned.

“It’s the Underworld,” he said. “Did you expect sunshine and meadows?”

For the first time, Castiel thought he saw a flicker of humour on Dean’s face.

“No,” Dean admitted. “I thought it would be a lot worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yeah. You know, I thought there would be skeletons everywhere, and sounds of torture, and monsters around every corner…”

In the distance, deep and booming, there was a noise.

Dean froze.

“What was that?” he demanded, his hand reaching for Castiel’s sleeve, seemingly involuntarily. “Did you hear that?”

“Ah,” Castiel said. There was a deep, low  _ thud.  _

And then another, and another - growing faster - and then again, the noise. 

Dean’s grip on Castiel’s sleeve became tighter.

“Was that - was that a bark?”

“Well -”

“You didn’t say  _ anything  _ about a dog?”

The thudding was growing louder and louder, coming nearer. Castiel sighed, and lifted one shoulder.

“They’re in all the stories,” he said.

“ _ They? _ ” Dean had time to yelp, before out of the the entrance to the Halls of the Dead, dwarfed by the columns and the magnitude of the building and yet still obviously enormous, there came running a huge, dark, muscular, three-headed dog.

Castiel gripped his sceptre a little tighter.

“They,” he confirmed.

The dog sprinted. It hared across the short distance between the Halls’ entrance and the edge of the trees, its powerful legs almost skidding out from underneath it occasionally in its hurry. Its three faces were blunt and short-muzzled, with small ears and thick, square jaws. As it ran, its thunderous paws shook the earth under its feet. Castiel held his ground, still as a statue; Dean, meanwhile, looked to be torn between staying with Castiel and making a break for the cover of the trees.

“Stay where you are,” Castiel said, suffusing his voice with enough power to hold Dean steady. The dog ran closer. One of its heads had its mouth open, tongue lolling over sharp teeth as it sprinted. All six eyes were fixed firmly on Castiel and Dean.

“Wh- why aren’t we running?” Dean said, almost a squeak. Castiel ignored him, holding deathly still. “Uh - H-Hades? Hades?” Dean’s voice was escalating in panic. The dog was close enough, now, that it was possible to see the strings of saliva between its pointed teeth, hear the way its breath huffed in and out of its lungs…

Castiel planted his sceptre.

“Kerberos,” he called in greeting, using thunderous tones drenched in divinity. He felt Dean’s hand wrench away from his arm, as Dean presumably remembered that he was holding onto one deathly, unpredictable power in hopes of escaping another. He knew Dean was on the verge of running away…

And then Kerberos, twenty feet high with jaws wider than Dean was tall, ground to a halt in front of Castiel, sat down… and wagged its tail.

“Good dog,” Castiel said. Kerberos bent down its central head, so that Castiel could lay his hand on its nose, and pat. “Very good dog.” He looked over at Dean, who had, at some point, sunk down to his knees in fear.

“You could have - you could have said - said it wasn’t - dangerous,” Dean choked out, staring at the dog. It looked down at him with its left-hand head, and blinked solemnly.

“Kerberos is dangerous,” Castiel said, lowering his hand. The middle head whined a little, and then licked its chops. The tail was still wagging. “Very dangerous indeed.”

Dean managed a faintly hysterical laugh. Castiel wondered whether the dog had been a step too far, at this early stage. On reflection, he probably should have put Kerberos on its chain before leaving. The great dog posed no threat to guests, but if Dean had run, it was entirely possible that Kerberos would have understood him to be Hades’ enemy, instead - and eaten him.

Then again, Castiel thought, he’d hardly expected to return to the Underworld with a mortal who had no connection to him or to the history of Persephone, and who would be surprised by everything he saw. The true Persephone would never have run. Castiel himself, when he had first seen Kerberos, had thoughtfully given it a belly rub, his mind already unlocking the story of Hades - the emotions, the loves, the familiarities coming to rest beside his own.

“Come and say hello,” Castiel said to Dean, who shuddered, getting to his feet even though he still looked wobbly.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m allergic to dogs.”

Kerberos’ left head tilted to one side, and its ears drooped. Dean gave it a glare that made Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

“Go,” he said to Kerberos, the single word resounding with force. Kerberos stood up on all fours once more, shook itself, making Dean flinch - and then went bounding away.

Castiel considered Dean for a long, long moment, before offering his arm one final time.

“Almost there,” he said, as Dean stepped forwards hesitantly, and laid his hand on top of Castiel’s cloak. Dean nodded.

“Almost there,” he said, a slight catch in his throat that Castiel didn’t understand.


	7. Chapter 7

Huge. 

Everything was huge.

The river; the forest; the Halls; the  _ dog.  _ Dean was made tiny by his surroundings, small enough to be squashed so, so easily. Walking into the Halls themselves had been like walking into a tomb; the air was unnaturally still, the space so calm and quiet that Dean couldn’t help being aware of his own loudness, his own mortality - his sweat, his rough voice, his frantically-thudding heart.

Hades had led him to a room, saying that he was sure Dean was tired after the journey. They would reconvene later on, to discuss what was to come. Dean didn’t want to think too hard about what he’d agreed to do; from the sounds of what Hades was saying, it was going to be more complicated than he’d originally hoped when he’d signed the contract. Still, that was a problem for the future.

Now, alone for the first time in the Underworld, he sat down on the end of the bed. Like everything else in the Halls, it was far too big for him. Dean wondered if the place had been built to accommodate giants, or if the architect had simply not bothered to check on the size of the average mortal when they had built it. Maybe, when the original gods were still alive - before they were replaced by this cycle of humans taking on their divinity - they were quite a lot bigger than Hades was now.

Dean still couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the idea of human gods. Not that Hades was physically human anymore - that was obvious with his every movement, his every expression - but in his aspect, he didn’t look any older than Dean. Dean wondered, suddenly, how old this Hades was. Had he been Dean’s age when he’d been taken to the Underworld, and been frozen in time? Or had he been young, had he aged into the role?

Dean had no idea. It still felt wrong, somehow, to have mortals being gods. Sacrilegious and strange. He should hate Hades, Dean thought suddenly. Should hate him for insisting on taking Dean to the Underworld, and not just letting Sam have Jess back - not showing any of the compassion that Dean would expect from a mortal.

Still, Dean couldn’t deny that despite his original mortality, Hades had a definitely divine aura of cold authority to him. And since Sam had been assured safe passage out of the Underworld, and with Jess, Dean also felt that couldn’t hold any serious grudge against Hades, even though part of him wanted to try. It wasn’t even so bad down here, Dean thought, looking around his room. Yes, it was dim and grey and gloomy, but there was an elegance to the room's silken curtains, its metal bedposts and mirror-frames, its cool marble floor. Even the bed itself wasn’t austere; the mattress was comfortable and the covers were soft. Dean was too wide-eyed and nervous, still, to even think about falling asleep, but his legs were aching after the walk and he couldn’t resist the temptation to shuffle back into the bed and lie down, head resting on one of the many soft, feather-filled pillows. 

He lay still, trying to catch his bearings for a moment. Pictures kept flashing through his mind; the crystal ceiling of the cave, the darkly-sheened waters of the river Styx, the look on Sam’s face as Dean glanced back at him for the last time… 

Dean swallowed hard. He already missed his brother; being in this place without him felt like missing an arm. He took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

The air smelled of nothing, except perhaps shadows. Dean didn’t understand how that would work, but the scent was - was  _ darker,  _ somehow, than the air up above. Living in it felt like inhaling pure melancholy; he imagined for a moment that he could feel himself being weighed down, that the shades were chasing from his breath into his blood - and that if he stayed here too long, he would become a part of the place from the inside out, ink in his veins, cloaked in darkness just like Hades himself…

Dean closed his eyes, the sudden whirl of his thoughts making him sick. The walk here had distracted him with its unexpected beauty, and being able to talk with Hades had kept his fear somewhat at bay, but now that he was alone he felt himself being swallowed up in the horror of his huge decision. He sat up, knees to chest, wanting to curl inwards and make himself smaller. The darkness behind his eyes was not so very different to the darkness in the room - how was he to escape the shadows when he had no way to bring light? 

He frowned hard, hugged his knees, and just breathed. He imagined that he was outside, in the garden behind their home. He tried to smell forget-me-nots and rose blossoms, instead of dust and dusk and death. 

He raised his hands to his face, and found that his cheeks were already a little wet, too numb with shock to feel the tears as they fell. And since they were already falling, Dean let himself crumble, just a little - and then a little more - until he was crying in earnest, silently, shoulders shaking as he looked around the sleek, comfortable room that felt like little more than a gilded tomb. He felt so small inside it, a tiny figure curled in the centre of the bed with the dark covers spooled around him in a nested circle.

Even as he cried, he couldn’t help wondering, for a moment, whether any of the other Persephones had felt this way, when they had first arrived in the Halls of the Dead. He wondered whether this room had belonged to any of them - if any of the rest of them had cried bitter tears at being trapped down here. Maybe the first Persephone, Dean thought, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. The first Persephone, only she hadn’t even signed a contract, or received anything in exchange - she was only dragged down to the Underworld, and made to marry Hades. Still, she, at least, Dean thought, would understand him sitting here, legs folded like a child, tears on his cheeks. 

He was suddenly glad that Sam wasn’t here; glad to be missing his brother. He wouldn’t want Sam to see him like this, crying like a little boy.

The tears kept falling harder every time Dean thought he was almost finished, but eventually he had cried himself dry. He closed his eyes, and breathed slowly. In through his nose, and out through barely-parted lips, letting the sound of his own escaping breath calm him. When he opened his eyes again, he let them drift around his room aimlessly, looking at his furnishings - not to distract himself, as before, but to try to gain some sense of familiarity. 

Everything was too dark, too strange. There was no comfort to be had.

Dean noticed again the mirror hanging on the wall, with its elaborate metalwork frame. He stared at it for a moment - the angle at which he sat affording him only a view of the door, four times as tall as he was and a deep, rich black. Dean unfolded himself from the bed, and walked on unsteady legs over to the mirror.

What he saw shocked him. His face seemed to have aged over the course of a single night; he looked gaunt, and tired, and bleached of colour. Even his hair looked grey in the gloomy reflection. Dean hesitated, and then lifted a hand; the old man in the mirror raised his hand, too. Definitely him, then.

Dean looked into the eyes of the figure in the mirror, trying to catch some sense of familiarity from the expression in his own eyes, the shape of them, the depth to them. It felt like trying to catch smoke; he kept seeing glimpses of someone he knew, but mostly he was looking into the shaken gaze of a stranger. When he looked for long enough, he found himself waiting for the person in the mirror to move first, to tell him what to do, as though he were the reflection.

He broke the eye contact, blinking hard. He recognised a dark thought when he saw one, a signpost to a path that led only to madness.

He sniffed hard, and cleared his throat.

“Hold it together, man,” he said aloud, trying to ignore the way his voice echoed eerily in his room. He looked back at himself in the mirror, setting his jaw firmly. “Come on. Hold it together.”

Somewhere below him, Dean heard the hollow thrum of a deep gong. He had no idea what that was intended to mean, but he supposed it must be a summons for him - after all, it wasn’t as though there were anyone else here to come running.

Except, perhaps, Kerberos.

Dean took in a breath and released it slowly. Either way, he was going to find the source of the noise. Whether he was needed or not, it would be better for him not to be alone, he told himself, in the absence of anyone to say it for him. Better not to sink back down into his worries, especially since he'd just managed to get his head above the water.

He left his room, the door falling closed in smooth silence behind him. Dean eyed the dark corridors on either side, too tall for him to be able to make out the ceiling. Their unadorned stillness was somehow more threatening than any gargoyles or creakings and groanings could have been. There was an inevitability to the quiet, Dean thought. A stoic, silent promise that one day, he would fall into the dark and it would swallow him whole…

“Ah,” said a voice from Dean's left, and he snapped his head around to see Hades striding towards him effortlessly, robes rippling strangely - more slowly than they should, as though the air itself were heavier. “I rang the gong, and then realised you would get yourself lost in the palace without me. My apologies.”

“It's - it's fine,” Dean said, as boldly as he dared. Hades looked more at ease in the comfort of his own house - such as it was, Dean thought to himself, casting another glance at the bare, dark walls, the smooth marble floor, and above them, the unseeable ceiling. The way that Hades carried himself, and kept his distance from Dean - the way his blue eyes seemed to burn with cold fire - made him seem more godlike and powerful than ever. 

“If you are well-rested after the journey,” said Hades, sounding as though he were reading from a script, “perhaps you would descend with me to the lower floors, where we can discuss… the plan.”

“We need a plan?” Dean said, though he fell into step beside Hades obediently, following him along the gloomy corridor and down some stairs. “Don’t I just… do my best impression of someone who loves flowers and stuff, and then go home?”

Hades’ expression, Dean saw as he watched that arch profile, twisted slightly.

“It… is not that simple.”

“How do you mean?”

Hades was silent, but led Dean forwards - down two more flights of stairs, and across a great atrium, into a room so large that Dean could not make out the opposite end of it. He stood, hands clenched, trying not to be terrified by the way that he was so utterly dwarfed.

“Turn around. Look above you,” Hades said. Dean swallowed, staring at Hades, trying to figure out what this was about. He turned on the spot and tilted his gaze upwards, and saw that cut into the stone of the walls, there had been carved a kind of relief mural - two figures, ambiguous silhouettes without faces, clasping hands. Dean wanted to turn to Hades with a shrug - but there was something about those two figures that arrested him, had him staring for longer. Their heads were tilted towards each other, their body language speaking clearly of love, of mutual devotion.

“That’s us?” Dean asked, and then hurried to correct himself. “I mean… that’s… you know… you, and who you’re meant to be with?”

“Yes,” Hades said. His expression was unreadable. 

Dean stared for longer, letting himself figure it out.

“This is what the gods are expecting,” he said slowly. He looked to Hades, who blinked at him earnestly.

“The Hades and the Persephone…” Hades began, sounding uncomfortable. “It does not matter what kind of… of affection they feel for each other, but - but there has to be some kind of - of obvious connection.”

Dean stared at Hades, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Are you telling me,” he said, “that we have to pretend to be in love for this to work?”

“I…” Hades said, an uncomfortable tilt to his head, though his face remained typically impassive. “I - I do not know. It does not have to be  _ in  _ love. But there has to be a connection.”

Dean bit his lip, and looked back up to the figures on the wall. He couldn’t imagine having any kind of connection with - with  _ Hades.  _ That was a job for the actual Persephone, someone genuinely divine, not for  _ him  _ \- for a tiny, tiny mortal, only here to help his brother. Even the idea of acting out a friendship felt strange.

“We can speak of it later,” Hades said, sounding awkward. “For now… perhaps it would help - if you were to put on the clothing of the Persephone? We only have a single day, tomorrow, to prepare for the ascent to Olympus. It would be better if you could start to get into your role.”

Dean fumbled for a grasp on this situation, feeling more out of control than ever.

“My clothes,” he said, unconsciously clutching at his loose jacket. The only things that he’d brought with him from home, and he’d have to shed them. Dean gritted his teeth. Maybe he could find a good reason to avoid having to change. “Yeah,” he said, uncertainly. “Lead the way.”

**

Castiel smiled to himself at the idea of needing to go anywhere in order to summon the Persephone’s clothing to himself. Dean had a lot to learn.

With the lightest thought, Castiel tipped the sceptre in his hand forward just an inch, and out of the air itself there appeared the clothes that he knew so well, floating in the air - the clothes that Missouri had worn every day she’d spent with him, the traditional, simple array of the Persephone. Castiel noticed Dean watching him, waiting for some kind of signal; a little touched, he nodded, and Dean approached. It would be a moment of great honour for Dean, Castiel was sure. To look on the very robes that countless Persephones had donned, to be the only mortal ever permitted to wear them…

Dean turned back to look at Castiel, frowning.

“It’s... a dress,” he said.

Castiel stared at him. The ceremonial white gown of the Persephone hung in the air, glowing with a soft, divine light.

“It’s a robe,” Castiel said.

“But - but dresses are for weddings,” Dean said. “And for when you’re in hospital.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean, and then spread his arms silently, inviting Dean to look again at his long, dark, flowing robe. 

“Well - well, that’s different,” Dean said. “Yours is all - all dark and spooky. This one has  _ flowers  _ on it.”

“You’re supposed to like flowers,” Castiel reminded him coolly. “You’re the Persephone.”

“I’m not  _ really _ ,” Dean argued, and then seemed to look quite frightened at his own daring. Castiel considered pretending to be angry, but decided against it. If anything, he found Dean’s arguments almost endearing.

“You even have flowers tattooed on your arm,” Castiel said. “You can’t mind them  _ that _ much.”

Dean seemed momentarily stumped, and Castiel had a sudden suspicion that Dean’s reluctance to put on the clothes had some ulterior motive. He couldn’t imagine what it might be - perhaps an unwillingness to wear the same clothing as the previous Persephone, when she had only recently - left it?

“It’s all... flowy and pretty,” Dean said. “I’m just not a flowy and pretty kind of person, that’s all.”

“You are supposed to  _ pretend  _ to be,” Castiel said. “That is the nature of  _ pretence. _ ”

“Yeah, well - well, maybe I’m not like the other Persephones,” Dean said. “Maybe I’ll be better at pretending to be one if I do my _own_ version of a Persephone.”

Castiel stopped to consider him. It was true, perhaps, that the lie would be more convincing if Dean could bring more of himself into the duplicity. And Dean’s clothes  _ were  _ light, and gently colourful, and didn’t look a thousand miles away from what a true Persephone might wear. And he did have the tattoo…

“Maybe you’re right,” he said aloud, slowly. The way Dean’s face relaxed made him more certain of having made the right decision. After all, if they were going to have to - to pretend to be - to have a  _ connection,  _ then they had to be genuinely nice to each other - didn't they? It would be no use pretending to be in any kind of profound relationship if Dean hated him.

“I’ll  _ act  _ just like the Persephone,” said Dean, who seemed keen to press his advantage. “You just have to teach me how. You know, what to say, what to do.”

Castiel folded his hands pensively. If he was honest, he wasn’t entirely sure  _ what  _ a Persephone did or how they acted, and how different it was from how Dean was already acting. Missouri had always been - kind, and caring - and she’d had an aura of steadiness, and peace, that surrounded her. And yet she could be angry, she could be stern... 

Castiel swallowed. He missed her.

“I will instruct you,” Castiel said. “We can begin whenever you would like.”

Dean shrugged.

“Nothing much else to do round here,” he said, and there was some forced bravado in his voice, again. Castiel wondered, briefly, how Dean had spent his time alone in his room, before. Sleeping, perhaps.

“There’s plenty to do here,” Castiel contradicted him, aloud. “The Palace is yours to explore, should you wish. Missouri always…” He tailed off, and Dean frowned.

“Missouri?” 

“It’s not important,” Castiel found himself snapping, the words coming out harsher than he’d intended. Dean threw a nervous glance towards Castiel’s sceptre, and visibly forced himself to stop asking any more questions. Castiel sighed to himself internally, and pressed his lips together.

“So… I can go anywhere in the Palace,” Dean said flatly.

“Anywhere,” Castiel confirmed. He frowned, and said in a slightly different voice, “Anywhere at all.”

It was true, he thought. Dean could go anywhere, and would discover no secrets. Castiel  _ had  _ no secrets, had nothing hidden behind closed doors - didn’t even have any possessions of his own, that he could think of. He wore the robes and carried the sceptre, yes, but they belonged to him as much as the air in his lungs - inevitably sighed away to give strength to someone else, sooner or later.

He had nothing of his own.

“Uh… is everything -?” Dean began, but broke off quickly when Castiel gave him a quelling look. Wanting his own belongings, was almost the same as wanting to be a  _ person _ , and that was something he could never be again. There was no point thinking about it and he certainly didn’t want Dean to try to talk to him about it. With a sharp gesture of his sceptre, he snapped Persephone’s robe out of sight, making Dean flinch again.

“If you won’t wear it, I’ll put it away,” Castiel said.

“I didn’t mean to - I just want to keep wearing -”

“It’s fine,” Castiel cut him off abruptly. “If you want to follow me up to the thrones, I can teach you a little of what you’ll be required to know on Olympus.”

“Required to know? Is there… some sort of test?” Dean asked, as Castiel moved off.

“Every moment there will be a test,” Castiel said shortly. “You will be expected to socialise with the other deities. The Panathenaia is… after all… a party.” He couldn't keep his disdain out of his tone. He didn't know whether his dislike of parties and big gatherings was something he'd been born with as Castiel, or something he'd inherited as Hades, but year on year it only seemed to strengthen.

“A party?” Dean said, and Castiel thought he could sense some hesitancy in Dean's tone, too. “Will you - I mean, will I be on my own for any of it?”

“I’ll always be with you on Olympus,” Castiel said. “So if you’re in doubt, simply do not speak. It takes many of us some time to adjust to becoming divine. Not wishing to speak is a common reaction. No one will question you.” He began to stride up the wide hall, the yards fleeing under his feet, while Dean came half-running after him. “Nevertheless, you must school your face. Your expressions are too fast and fluid to be divine. When you...”

He turned, and saw Dean at least twenty feet behind him, struggling to keep up, just as he had on the journey down to the Underworld. It was hard, Castiel thought to himself, to remember how different Dean was. How human, in all the little ways.

“Keep going,” Dean said, when he’d caught up. “I was listening.”

Castiel eyed him for a long moment, and then in one smooth, graceful movement, sank down to the floor and crossed his legs.

“Here is as good as there,” he said. The passage up the hall would take longer than Castiel was prepared to wait, on mortal feet. He surprised himself with his impatience. It seemed as though being around a human was starting to influence his moods, already.

Cautiously, Dean sat down and folded his legs, too. There were at least five feet of space between them, a more than respectable distance. Castiel focused his attention on Dean’s face, trying to familiarise himself quickly with the way that he looked, the expressions that he wore.

“You need to know who everyone is, on Olympus,” Castiel said, and Dean gave a single, confused nod. Castiel closed his eyes, and held out his hand. 

He allowed his mind to fall a little into dream. Not too far, in case he should disturb Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, and catch his attention - but enough for Castiel to draw his thoughts into sight, gathered over his palm like golden particles of dust that twisted and shaped.

He concentrated, seeing in his dream the face of Zeus - bearded, with short hair and a slightly concerned expression.

“This is Zeus,” he said aloud, his own voice hazy and unreal in the half-dream. He hoped that Dean was listening. “King of the Gods. In this skin, he is - changeable. At times all-knowing, at times weak.”

“Skin?” he heard Dean ask.

“The mortal he walks within,” Castiel explained.

“It’s only - you only use the skin?”

“No... no. It’s more complicated than that.”

“So are you still who you were before? Or are you more Hades?”

“I am -” Castiel began, and then realised he hardly knew how to answer. He didn’t want to think about it. “I am myself,” he said sharply. “That is all you need to know.”

He shifted his thoughts, changing the face in his palm. Half-cringing, he brought to mind a red-haired, dark-eyed skin, wearing a beautiful, hungry smile.

“Who’s  _ that _ ?” Dean said, and Castiel heard the edge of admiration in his voice.

“Hera. Queen of the Gods. My enemy, as of the moment I told her that I did not sense the new Persephone, and she told me she would denounce me as unworthy if I came to the Panathenaia without having found you. Well… not you, exactly.  _ Them _ . The real… new Persephone,” he said, his awkwardness almost tipping him out of the dream.

“Right,” Dean said, Castiel’s haziness making him sound as though he were on the other side of a window pane, far away. “Hera. Bad. Got it.”

“She isn’t bad,” Castiel cautioned. “She is my enemy. It’s not the same. Don’t expect her to be evil, and then think me a liar when she behaves well.”

Dean was silent for a moment.

“I think I get it,” he said. Castiel nodded his head - hopefully in reality, so that Dean could see, and not in dream.

“She will be kind to you,” he said. “She cannot help herself, when something is newly created, newly made… and you are the new Persephone. There are rules that cannot be broken. But she, in particular, will be looking for a reason to catch me out, after I spoke with her. Watch what you say, if you wish me to live -” Castiel paused, remembering Dean’s true motive for being here. “And if you wish for Sam to be able to fetch Jess. I doubt a new Hades would honour the contract we signed.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Actually, I noticed on the contract, it didn’t look like you signed it ‘Hades’… what did you -?”

“Next,” Castiel interrupted. “These gods and goddesses are not so important, but you must still know their faces. Demeter, your divine mother, goddess of the harvest and fertility. My brother, Poseidon, Lord of the Sea. Artemis, goddess of the hunt and of the wilderness, daughter of Zeus. Her twin, Apollo, god of the sun and of music. Athena, goddess of war and wisdom…”

Castiel let the faces flick past, hoping that Dean would remember them. Castiel would be with him, of course, to make formal introductions, so he shouldn’t need to commit them perfectly to memory - but even still, it would be for the better if Dean weren’t completely reliant on Castiel for his act to pass…

For the first time, the reality of what Castiel was planning came home to him. He was seriously going to take Dean, a helpless mortal, to  _ Olympus,  _ to parade him around as a false god.

He opened his eyes, and the image in his hand dispelled at once. Dean, who had been watching intently, blinked up at him in surprise. Castiel stared back in silence for a long, long moment.

“Uh… did I do something wrong?” Dean said, bringing his legs up to his chest defensively. Castiel shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, I just - what I'm doing here, just to survive... as the Lord of Death, I should not be struggling so hard against its embrace. I don't know why I wish so much to avoid my demise… after all, it's true that I am not a worthy Hades.”

Castiel pressed his lips together sadly, and lifted one shoulder to let it fall. Dean was frowning at him, as if struggling to form words.

“Maybe…” Dean said, “maybe since you're the Lord of Death, you can sense it's not… you know… your time to go.”

Castiel almost smiled.

“A nice idea,” he said. “But that isn't how it works. Fate is far too complicated for most beings to have one clear time at which they die.”

Dean took this in, and Castiel could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He felt morose, the emotion coming upon him faster than any feeling had in a long, long time. There was something about spending time with a human that was unbalancing him, making him  _ feel _ things in a way that he simply hadn’t, before. Not even with Missouri by his side.

“Maybe,” Dean said again, “you just feel like you got something in your future that you want to be alive to see.”

Castiel’s smile, this time, was more bitter.

“I have no future,” he said, trying not to sound too bleak. “The Underworld is my home, and I love it, but… it is not a place where many things change.”

Dean's frown only deepened. 

“Can't  _ you  _ change it?”

Castiel shook his head.

“There are rules…” he began.

“If you say ‘that cannot be broken’,” Dean said, in a decidedly less respectful tone, “then so help me, I will kick your ass.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, and Dean cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.

“OK, I might have said that without thinking,” he said. “Are you going to strike me down with your magic stick?”

Castiel’s tiny smile rose up unbidden, and his sadness dispelled as quickly as it had come. The pace of his own emotion was making him feel almost unwell.

“No,” he said, and suddenly realised that Dean was watching him with a new expression on his face - there was a lightness to him, a different kind of curiosity in his eyes. Castiel blinked, trying to understand it. “What?” he demanded. 

Dean immediately dropped his gaze, and shrugged defensively.

“Uh,” he said. “So, anyway. I don’t know if I’ll remember all those people, but I’ll do my best. What else do I need to know? I mean… I still don’t know how to - you know, how to act like a  _ god _ .”

Castiel, still lingering in his mind over the look on Dean’s face, called himself back to reality. He considered Dean thoughtfully, and then got to his feet with easy grace.

“First,” he said, “it is a question of how you walk.”

Dean stood up to join him, his expression doubtful.

“How I walk?” he said. “What’s wrong with how I walk?”

“Show me,” Castiel commanded. Dean snorted.

“What is this, a fashion parade? First you want me trying on your dresses, now you want to see my moves?”

Castiel decided not to dignify the suggestion with a response. He gave Dean a cool glare, and after only a few moments, Dean was raising his hands in mock surrender.

“OK, OK. Here I go,” he said. He took his first few steps down the hall perfectly normally - a little round-shouldered, Castiel thought, and there was a definite bow to his legs, though that couldn’t be helped - in fact, it was a little endearing.

Castiel wrinkled his nose at the thought. It wasn’t endearing, it was Dean’s natural form, a fact of life.

A few steps further down the hall, Dean started swinging his arms a little more, and then a little more still, exaggerating and taking huge long steps with his knees raised high like a soldier.

“Dean,” Castiel said flatly.

“Give me a drumbeat! I’ve got something going on here!”

Castiel sighed. Dean soldiered on down the hall.

“I’m going to march all the way to Olympus!”

_ “Dean _ .” 

Dean turned around, biting his lip so that he wouldn’t grin. He was a little pink, Castiel realised, from showing off. Castiel carefully kept his own expression utterly still, not giving Dean any encouragement by permitting himself another smile.

“Sorry,” Dean said, tugging on his jacket, obviously awkward under Castiel’s disapproving glare. “So… uh, what do you think? My normal walk, will it do?”

“No,” Castiel said crisply, and Dean wilted a little. Castiel unbent. “That is, it’s a good walk for a human. But not for a god.”

Dean shrugged, and scuffed a foot on the marble floor. Castiel wondered, briefly, if the floors had ever felt something so meaningless and mortal as a foot-scuffing, in all the aeons since they’d been laid when the palace was built.

“What do you want me to change?” Dean said, with a touch of truculence. He didn’t want to change  _ anything,  _ thought Castiel impatiently. His clothes, his walk, his distinctly undivine attitude...

Castiel approached in a slow swirl of dark cloak material, and reached out his hand to lift Dean’s chin with the tips of his fingers.

“Chin up,” he said, trying not to feel any surprise at the warmth of Dean’s skin on his cold hands. Dean, seemingly on instinct, lifted up his hand and grabbed hold of Castiel’s fingers, enclosing them in a warm grip.

“Zeus,” Dean said, the curse mild but sincere. “You’re cold as Hell.”

_ Cold as Hell.  _ Castiel could only give Dean yet another long, silent stare. It took him a moment, but this time, Dean closed his eyes and snorted with embarrassment as he released Castiel’s fingers.

“I mean,” he said. “It’s just a phrase!”

Castiel rolled his eyes, the barest flick - but Dean caught it, Castiel could tell from the way his expression shifted. He gripped his sceptre more tightly, feeling a strange, new feeling in his stomach - just the barest stirrings of it. It felt like - like an emptiness, like a hunger. Dean was noticing him -  _ observing  _ him, seeing him for the first time and finding him… interesting, perhaps. Or was Castiel reading too much into the slight upward curve of Dean’s mouth, the hint of warmth in his eyes?

Probably.

“So,” Dean said, lifting his head again, setting it at the angle Castiel had prescribed. “Chin up. Got it. What else?”

Castiel cleared his throat.

“Your shoulders,” he said. “They need to be lowered, and pulled back.” He didn’t touch Dean again, and after a barely-noticeable pause, Dean made the adjustment himself. “Now, try again.” Dean began to walk down the hall, wearing an expression that was definitely sceptical. His footsteps echoed, tiny, in the huge, huge space.

“I feel stupid,” Dean said. Cas sighed.

“Stop  _ clomping _ ,” he said, a word that he hadn’t had call to use for quite some time. “Step carefully. Imagine you hold great power within you. Your lightest touch can shake mountains, send hurricanes.”

Dean began to tiptoe.

“ _ No _ ,” Castiel said, before realising that Dean was laughing again. He sighed, more frustrated than before. “Do it properly. With elegance. You have millennia of knowledge and artistry unravelling inside you.”

Dean lifted his leg balletically, and did a little pirouette.

“I am art,” he said. “I am light as a feather…”

Castiel stopped walking, putting his fingertips to his forehead to massage the slight headache he thought he could feel building there.

“I think that’s enough walking,” he said, more than a little snappishly. It would be easier to have  _ fun,  _ or whatever it was that Dean was doing, if his own life didn’t depend on Dean being able to pull off this act.

“What? No, no, wait,” Dean said. “Look, I’m gonna do it. For real.”

He began to walk back towards Castiel, and this time he put in more effort. He kept his chin up - though the angle still looked uncomfortable for him - and walked neatly and carefully, heel to toe. It lacked any of the delicacy that Castiel had come to expect of the Persephone through Missouri - but he couldn't deny that Dean did have a grace to his movements, albeit one that was well-disguised under swinging arms and big heavy boots.

A new kind of Persephone, Castiel reminded himself. Dean's own version.

Dean finished his walk, and came to a halt in front of Castiel, holding his arms open loosely for the verdict. Castiel tilted his head a little one way and then the other, making a show of ambivalence.

Dean cracked a smile.

“Well, you’re not telling me all the things I did wrong, so I’m gonna take that as a win. Knew I could do it,” he said, the certainty in his voice not quite perfect. 

Castiel frowned. He wondered, suddenly, how much of Dean's silliness had been overcompensating for a fear that he couldn't do it if he really tried. He blinked. That was so…  _ human.  _ He couldn't think of any other way to describe it.  Human foolishness.

“You should practise constantly,” Castiel said. “And not allow yourself to walk in your typical fashion, so that  _ this  _ becomes your typical fashion.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped.

“OK. Sure,” he said, a little colourlessly. Castiel wondered if Dean had been hoping for some words of encouragement, something to counteract his own lack of confidence. Well, it was too late now, Castiel thought.

“Now we should move on to some history,” he said. “You need to know the origins of the gods, the reasons we came into being, the way that the mortals’ beliefs keep us alive…”

“Oh… I know most of that already. I used to go to temple a lot, back when my mom was alive.”

Dean had his hands on his hips, and didn’t look keen for the history lesson, but Castiel kept his face impassive. There was no way around it; Dean needed to know all these things from a divine perspective to be able to talk to the gods at the Panathenaia without making a fool of himself, and potentially bringing down the whole pretence.

“You need to hear it again,” Castiel said.

“But -”

“Sit down,” Castiel said. He made to lower himself back down to the ground, but Dean shifted from foot to foot.

“Here?” he said, glancing around the hall. “Is there - is there maybe somewhere else we can go? Somewhere kinda - different?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“The Palace is like this.... throughout,” he said. “There  _ is  _ nowhere different.”

“What - there’s no - no light anywhere? No fires?”

Castiel thinned his lips.

“You can’t be reliant on light,” he said. “You’re supposed to be  _ divine. _ ” The fact that there  _ was  _ a fire - that was something Dean didn’t have to know, Castiel thought. Not until he’d earned it, proven himself ready to face what was to come.

“Well,” Dean said, sounding more stubborn, “as I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m  _ not  _ divine. I just want some warmth on my face, is that too much to ask?”

“Yes,” Castiel snapped. “It is.”

Dean glowered at him, his brief good humour from moments before vanished completely.

“I need a break,” he said. “I want to go to my room.”

“You don’t have time,” Castiel said sharply. “If you don’t know this, then you will inevitably be found out -”

“I just need a few minutes!”

“You don’t  _ have  _ a few minutes -”

“Just give me  _ one moment  _ then,” Dean said, even louder. “Can’t you see that - all this, all this divine stuff - it’s a lot? I just need a second to -”

“We don’t have time for your mortal feelings to get in the way.”

Dean’s expression, which had been mulish before, now turned to outright anger.

“Well, then, you shouldn’t have picked a mortal to try to help you, should you?” he said, and turned on his heel. Castiel felt his own frustration building as he watched Dean stomp away, round-shouldered, walking like he’d always walked. He felt his grip on the sceptre tighten, his eyes narrowing.

“At least  _ walk  _ like the Persephone!” he said, his voice coming out lower with powerful anger, and the sceptre struck the floor with a burst of blue sparks.

Dean’s body jerked, and suddenly his steps were light, his chin held high, his shoulders back, his back upright and tense - Castiel stared at him in horror for a moment before lifting the sceptre from the ground with a wrench, releasing Dean from his will.

Dean’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. 

There was a long pause, in which only Dean’s breathing broke the silence. Castiel didn’t move. He’d exercised his power over mortals before, of course - what god hadn’t? - but it had never felt like that. Watching Dean’s body follow his orders, it had been - a violation, one that left Castiel’s stomach reeling.

Dean turned back to look at him, and Castiel only realised how much trust had grown between them over the course of the little time they’d spent together when all trace of it was removed from Dean’s face. He looked terrified, and angry, and - betrayed.

“You - you can control me with that thing,” Dean said, eyeing the sceptre. “You can make me do whatever you want?”

Castiel didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Dean shook his head. He seemed to be shaking, still.

“You’re a  _ monster _ ,” Dean said, and he got to his feet, and ran.

Castiel watched him go, holding the sceptre lightly - as though afraid that it might turn against him, might control him, too.

**

Dean ran, his legs still strange and numb beneath him.

The sensation of powerlessness burned at him. The feeling of his arms moving, his legs stepping, his back stretching, all without him able to control it - he stopped running, only for a moment, to lean against the wall and bend over, suddenly afraid he was going to be sick. He could feel drops of sweat running down his face. It was  _ too much,  _ it was all just too much - this place was going to suck everything out of him, Sam had been right, Dean would never go back home - and if he did, it would be as nothing more than Hades’ plaything, trapped in a body that wouldn’t answer him…

He thought he heard a sound behind him, and ran on. He swung around corners blindly, choosing corridors at random, letting blind fear lead him on. Left, right, right, left - and then, suddenly, he stopped. 

It was pure instinct, and for a moment, he couldn't figure out what had caught his attention, snapped him out of his fear-driven rush. But then - he felt it again.

He took in a breath, his heart thudding. Was he imagining it, or could he taste - a different kind of air? 

His eyes still wide with panic, he drew in another breath, and another. It was faint - the scent of it barely recognisable - but somewhere, there was a  _ draught.  _ And it smelled like something Dean knew, something that was so far removed from the deathly quiet halls of the Underworld that at first, he couldn’t name it.

He began to move again, more slowly now, chasing after the scent. He needed Kerberos’ nose, he caught himself thinking, as he took wrong turn after wrong turn - but eventually, he found himself outside a door where the draught was stronger than ever. Dean stared at the plain wood, the simple black handle. He couldn’t be punished for going in here, could he? Hades had said that he was allowed to go anywhere in the Palace…

Dean reached out a hand, gripped the cold handle in his warm fingers, and pushed it open.

He had to raise his hand to his eyes at once, shielding them from the light that spilled out of the room in a wave, carrying with it a roll of scent so strong that Dean almost lost his balance at the sheer unexpectedness of it.  _ Hellebore,  _ said his brain.  _ Hyacinth. _

Dean took a step inside the room, his mouth open.

It was quite as tall as any of the other rooms in the Palace, only this time, the great length of space up to the ceiling was illuminated by a split of light that had Dean squinting after so long in the gloomy near-dark. The circular floor was covered in tables, and on every surface there were pots and pots and pots of bright, cheerful, beautiful flowers.

Dean realised he had his hand over his mouth, disbelieving. He dropped it, his eyes almost completely adjusted to the sudden light.

He reached out tentative fingers, and stroked the petals of a bloom of hellebore. It felt like smooth softness, the way only a living flower could. It was real.

“This isn’t possible,” Dean murmured. Now that he could see better, he realised that the shaft of light from above would have been a poor thing, up on the surface - barely a lick of sunlight - but down here, it was a waterfall’s gush of life. Dean held out his hands, and spent a moment simply soaking it in.

_ It’s OK,  _ he told himself.  _ You’re still you. You’re Dean Winchester. You’re in your clothes. You’re in charge of your own body. You can feel the sun on your skin. _

He wondered how far this trickle of sunlight had to travel, down through the earth, to reach him. How was it possible? How did the hungry soil not eat up every drop of light before it ever reached the Underworld?

Dean began to move through the tables, occasionally seeing a dead bloom and snapping off the head out of habit, wanting to distract himself. The plants looked healthy, though there was no water in the saucers that the pots were all standing in. Dean frowned. The spread of green would soon yellow and curl if they weren’t given water.

Lying on top of the furthermost of the tables, beside the largest of the hyacinth plants, there was a single sheet of paper. Dean glanced over it and picked it up, holding it gently in fingers still clumsy with shock.

_ Dear Persephone,  _ read the first line. Dean bit his lip. So this was a letter, and it both was and was not meant for him. He wondered briefly whether he should read on, or whether he should leave the letter for the true Persephone to read, one day, when Hades had found them - but then his anger raised its head once more at the thought of Hades. Dean didn’t owe the Underworld and its weirdnesses any respect. He read on.

_ I expect you will be drawn to this place, as I was. I hope so. It was a solace for me, when I first arrived, and felt trapped and terrified inside the Palace. May it bring you the peace that you’ll need. I warded it against Hades; you will understand the need for solitude at first, I am sure. I did not use it in later years; I did not need to. _

_ The Hades is never easy to understand. It is a painful role to play, to take away the loved ones that people never want to lose. It will be worse for him now, in this skin, since he will have to lose me… and he will understand truly, for the first time, the pain that he causes. He will be lost. _

_ There has always been something different about this skin. It was not easy to find him, and he did not want to come to the Underworld. He has a depth of feeling like I've never seen before, and it could easily lead to mistakes. I have tried to impress upon him the importance of keeping the old rules alive and strong. He is not one to naturally abide by them. Take care. _

_ You have much to look forward to. This is the beginning of a new kind of life for you. I wish you well. And I will look for you in Elysium. _

_ Missouri.  _

Dean swallowed hard. Missouri, he thought to himself. Hades had said that name, and then forbidden any further talk of them, whoever they were. It sounded as though they were a Persephone, though Dean had no idea if the letter was from three centuries ago, or three days. It couldn't be _that_ long, Dean reasoned, since the paper was intact...

“What is that?” demanded a harsh voice from behind Dean. “What is this place?”

Dean crumpled the letter in his grip, swinging around violently, his fists clenching instinctively. Behind him, Hades was standing, his expression tense and drawn.

“Dean, I want to -”

“Stay away from me,” Dean said furiously. Hades lifted both hands, and it was only then that Dean realised he was not carrying the sceptre.

“I mean you no harm,” Hades said. The lines under his eyes looked more pronounced; he looked older and more tired than he had in the throne room, only minutes before. 

_ He will be lost,  _ Dean couldn’t help thinking to himself. 

“I swear on the Styx that I will not hurt you. I was going to leave you be. But then I heard you in here, I saw the light… how did you find a place in my Palace that I have never seen?”

Dean lifted a shoulder uncomfortably.

“Who’s Missouri?” he asked. Hades went still, his eyes bluer than blue in the sunlight, his pupils tiny to protect his eyes from the unexpected glare.

“You heard me say her name before,” he said quietly. Dean nodded, and then released his grip on the letter just a little, holding it up so that Hades could see it.

“Who is she?” he said - and then, suddenly, it all clicked into place in his mind. Hades in the graveyard, telling them that the Persephone had died. Missouri, in the letter, saying that Hades would be lost without her. This room, warded to protect it from Hades’ knowledge, that protection now gone since Missouri was dead.

“She was the last Persephone,” Hades said heavily, confirming Dean’s guesses. “She was the one who came and got me from the mortal world. She took care of me. She was -” His voice shuddered, and it sounded like the groaning of the earth. “She was my friend.”

He dipped his head, his eyes falling closed, forehead furrowed as though with pain.

Dean looked down at the letter in his hand once more, and then back to Hades. She’d been a true Persephone, and this was the true Hades. Their bond must have been incredibly strong. Dean couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to have to say goodbye someone like that. He himself knew what it was like to be lost in grief, making bad decisions and mistakes.

He stepped forward, and put out his hand. After only a moment’s hesitation, he laid it gently on Hades’ shoulder.

Hades didn’t move, not at first - but after a second, he leaned into the touch, just an inch.

“This was her place,” Dean said, looking around the room. “It says in the letter. It says that she warded it, so that the Hades couldn’t find her. She said she needed it at first, but not so much, later.”

Hades looked up at him, his expression confused.

“She - she needed solitude? Like you? She did not... fall naturally into being the Persephone?”

“I’m only reading what it says,” Dean said, a little defensive against Hades’ disbelief. Hades eyed the letter in Dean's hand, and then sighed, long and low.

“I never knew,” he said. “I never guessed. I became the Hades that I was supposed to be… almost without thinking.”

Dean opened his mouth to contradict Hades, to tell him of Missouri’s words, how she had struggled to reach him - but then he decided against it. Maybe Hades’ belief that he had easily become divine was important to him, and this was no time to be taking that away. Instead, Dean said,

“I’m sorry it’s not so easy for me.”

Hades shook his head.

“It’s… it’s a good thing. You have your own sense of self… your own personhood, which you don’t want to give up. I never…” He tailed off, and Dean was left watching him in silence. Hades didn’t seem so tall, suddenly, Dean thought. In fact - standing with his hand on Hades’ shoulder, still - Dean realised that he probably had at least an inch on him.

“You’re short,” Dean couldn’t help saying. Hades’ head jerked up.

“I am  _ not. _ ”

“You are! Look, you’re shorter than me!”

“I am hunched over,” Hades said, a look on his face that was almost a pout. “It’s not a fair test.”

“No, look - stand up straight -”

“... No,” Hades said.

“See! You know I’m taller!”

Hades glowered at him. Dean tried to keep the conversation moving, to lift away the dark clouds over Hades’ head.

“How did I not notice this before?” Dean said, thinking back. Hades had always seemed so powerful and imposing, at least half a foot taller than Dean.

Hades’ pale cheeks were suddenly coloured with an ever-so-slight tint of pink.

“I had my sceptre before,” Hades said. Dean tried not to tense just at the mention of it. “I - when I first met you, I used it to - I occasionally use it to lift my physical form off the ground, so that I do not have to -”

“Wait,” Dean said, feeling a grin unfurl on his face. “Wait - are you saying that you were  _ floating  _ this whole time, to be taller than me?”

Hades’ blush deepened.

“Perhaps,” was all he said. Dean couldn’t help snorting with laughter, and Hades glared at him, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder. “Listen, it's because…”

Dean waved his hands.

“Do not even try to explain this one,” he said. “Trust me! It can only get worse.” He laughed, and Hades rolled his eyes.

A silence fell between them, a little awkwardly. Dean carefully set the letter down on a nearby table, his distraction from what had happened before fading away. He could still feel the echo in his limbs of a force, a pressure, that made him act against his own will.

“Dean,” Hades said. “I want to apologise. What I did earlier - it was an accident. I never meant to force you to walk like that…”

“You scared the shit out of me,” Dean said, letting himself sound accusatory, letting himself be angry.

“I was frustrated,” Hades said. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“That’s - it's not -” Dean said. “You just - you can just wave your stick and suddenly I’m walking the way you want, and if you do it again I’ll be talking the way you want, and saying all the things you tell me to say - and it’d be so easy for you… I can’t just - I can’t pretend to  _ care _ so much about you when all I can think about is -”

“The imbalance of power,” Hades said, sounding serious. He was looking at Dean intently, his eyes wide and solemn, not brushing him off - as Dean had been convinced he would do. “The fact that I am divine, and you are mortal. It weighs on you.”

Dean shrugged self-consciously.

“How could it not?” he said. “You could probably murder me with half a thought. I know I’m supposed to be learning but it’s hard, when…”

“When you don’t feel safe,” Hades finished for him. He looked up to the ceiling, where the light trickled through. “Yes, I understand. I am sorry for making you feel afraid.” 

Dean raised his shoulders again, a little angrily. He didn’t  _ want  _ to be afraid. 

“It’s fine. It’s not like you can do anything about it.” He looked down at his feet. An apology meant nothing when it changed nothing. Hades had to be Hades, no matter how terrifying that was. And Dean was stuck as a mortal, powerless and small.

“How can I make it better for you?”

Dean looked at Hades in disbelief, the question unexpected. Hades’ expression was the softest that Dean had ever seen it, his eyes sad, and lacking their usual distance. He really wanted to help, Dean thought. At least, it seemed like it. Part of Dean wanted to brush him off, say he didn't need help - but Zeus help him, he did need it. Time to shelve his pride.

“It’s better when you don’t have your stick,” Dean said. Hades nodded, and then a small smile curved up the corner of his mouth.

“It’s a sceptre,” he said. “I will carry it as little as possible so long as I am with you. And I will not ever control your body with it again. That was…” Dean watched a shudder go through Hades’ body. “Repugnant behaviour.”

“You mean it?” Hades nodded.

“I swear it,” he said. “On the Styx.”

Dean searched Hades’ blue eyes for a long moment, seeking any sign of duplicity - but he saw only sincerity, and sorrow.

“OK,” he said. “OK. Let’s keep going, then.”

Hades nodded, and then moved as if to pick up the letter. He stopped himself just before reaching it, curling his fingers back into his palm.

“You can read it,” Dean said. “If you want. I did, and it’s not even for me.”

“You needed it,” Hades said. “That makes it yours enough to read it. But she never meant it for me.”

Dean looked down at the letter, a dip between his brows.

“She signs it Missouri,” he said. “Why not Persephone, if that’s who she was?”

Hades’ expression closed.

“Missouri was the name of her skin,” he said. “Her body. Who she was, before she became the Persephone.”

“Oh - you remember your names! Right,” Dean said. “Like how Hera was Ab- Aba-”

“Abaddon,” Hades said, sounding even less pleased than before.

“So - so what was your -”

“We need to move on,” Hades said, standing up quickly, his tone final. He left the room with the light in it, and Dean watched him walk back into the shadows beyond.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean knew better than to press for Hades’ mortal name, but he still couldn’t stop the press of curiosity in his throat, the weight of the question begging to be asked. It was easier, now, not to feel terrified of him; though Hades still cut an impressive, imposing figure, without his stick - his  _ sceptre -  _ he seemed just a little less aloof and distant.

Of course, the fact that Hades couldn’t force anyone's body to act against their own will without it - that was probably also a part of it. Not that Hades would be using that power ever again, Dean reminded himself. There was no guarantee that would completely convince him, that would have him implicitly trusting Hades, but if anything could have brought him close… Dean had to admit, it was the way that Hades had acted in the light room. He’d had a truthfulness to him that Dean had never expected to see.

Now, he followed Hades away from the light room, and back into the dark.

“Are we going back to the throne room?” Dean asked. Hades nodded curtly, and Dean sighed. There was something about that room that spooked him, made the experience of being ridiculously small in this gargantuan house somehow worse. He tried to hang on to the fact that the light room existed; he could go back there later, soak in the sun, water the flowers.

“How did Missouri get the sun to reach down here?” Dean asked. Hades was silent for a moment, and Dean thought that perhaps he was being blanked once more, like he always seemed to be when he sought answers to his questions.

“I imagine,” Hades said, and Dean realised that he had been thinking. “She used mirrors. It must have taken years. She had great power over the earth… she could use it to persuade the soil to hold mirrors, to compact it into a tunnel…”

“She was smart,” Dean said. Hades nodded, struck silent again.

The throne room was, of course, exactly as Hades and Dean had left it. Dean sat down beside the door, his legs crossed.

“Alright,” he said, looking up at Hades. “Ready for the history lesson.”

Hades watched him, expression softening. He sat down, too, opposite Dean.

“The history… we can speak of later,” he said. “I was wrong to bring it up so soon, when it is not an essential. More important is your - your face.”

Dean’s eyebrows dropped, and he tilted his head to one side.

“You said that before,” he said. “What’s wrong with my face?” Something about his expressions, he remembered Hades saying before. They were too human.

Hades met his eyes.

“Your face moves too fast to be divine,” he said slowly. “You need to calm your features.”

“Calm my… ?”

“Make of yourself a deep pool. Only the greatest waves shift your surface.”

Dean frowned, and Hades lifted a finger.

“That,” he said, “was too fast.”

“But - but how do I speak without moving my face?” Dean demanded. “It’s just natural, I don’t even think about it!”

“Try,” Hades said. Dean rolled his eyes. “ _ Try.  _ Say something, with a blank face.”

Dean sighed. This was stupid. It was exactly like learning to walk right - it wasn’t as though he’d ever be able to actually do it to Hades’ satisfaction. He felt awkward and clumsy even thinking about trying.

“My name is Dean,” Dean said, keeping everything as still as possible. His voice came out in a monotone, and he leaned into it, making it silly. “I am having so much fun. I love my life right now. Zeus, help me. Nothing has ever been this fun.”

“ _ Dean _ ,” Hades reprimanded, at the same time as Dean’s straight face failed him, and he laughed.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “Sorry, sorry.” He composed himself, ready to try again. Hades watched him seriously, waiting.

Dean couldn’t resist it. He puffed out his cheeks and crossed his eyes.

“ _ Dean! _ ”

Dean’s snort of laughter was even louder this time.

“Your face!” he said. “Makes it all worth it. OK, OK. I’m focused. I’m ready. I can do this.” He heard the slight wobble of doubt, and smiled to cover it up. He doubted that Hades had even noticed - though he did look suddenly more thoughtful, a pensive look in those blue eyes.

Dean blinked, realising that he was staring, and tried to focus on feeling nothing. Or on feeling something, but deep down, or - something. It didn’t make any sense. He’d never get it.

“You can do it,” Hades said. It was so unexpected that Dean could only stare at him, wide-eyed, for a couple of long seconds. “I mean it. You can do this. Just relax.”

His voice was gentle, and honest. Dean could feel the colour rising to his cheeks. He tried to concentrate. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had shown any faith in him about anything. It seemed to make some deeper part of him unclench, just to hear the words.  _ I can do this,  _ he thought, and this time he meant it just a little bit more.  _ I can do this. _

He closed his eyes.

“Imagine everything you feel is deep inside you,” Hades said. “Imagine your emotions run deeper than oceans. On the surface, you are still…”

Dean let his feelings - the whole mix of them, confused and messy - sink into himself, lower in his body, in his mind. Where were feelings kept? Where were they felt? Not his face, not anymore, Dean thought. In his chest, maybe. In his heart. In the deep places inside his own mind.

He opened his eyes.

“My name is Dean,” he said again. The words came out slower, this time. He almost put himself off with the slightly strange cadence - his lips wanted to flick into a nervous smile - but he held himself together. “I am the new Persephone. Hades found me and brought me to the Underworld.”

“How do you like it there?” Hades said, playing along with the conversation. Dean swallowed, a little too hard, and cursed himself internally.  _ No expression. _

“I like it,” he said. “It is very beautiful.”

Hades reached up a hand, and with a delicate touch, smoothed away the frown on Dean’s brow. Dean ducked his head, disappointed.

“I didn’t do it right,” he said. “I don’t even notice I’m changing my face.”

Hades, who had pulled back his hand, shook his head.

“That was better,” he said. “Very much better. Everyone will think of you as newly divine. They will forgive lapses into mortal expression.”

“Even from you?” Dean said. He reached out his own hand, and quickly poked Hades’ cheek, right where it met his mouth - the place where a tiny smile was being kept. Hades relaxed his face at once, looking at the ground.

“No,” he said. “Not from me. It’s being around a mortal, it - makes me forget not to -” He broke off, his mouth pressed a little thinner than it should be. Dean felt his curiosity rise up. 

“To what?” he asked, certain that the question would be ignored. Hades didn’t meet his eyes, still, his gaze tracing patterns on the marble floor. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and then tried again.

“To - feel things,” he said at last.

Dean frowned, and then remembered to flatten the expression away.

“You don't... feel things?” he said. Hades did not speak for some time, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his back very straight.  _ He will be lost,  _ Dean thought. The words kept springing to his mind, unbidden.

He kept expecting Hades to change the subject, to ignore him, like he ignored most important questions. And yet -

“I decided to stop,” Hades said. “A long time ago. It was too much - all the prayers, all the pleas - I had to shut them out.”

Dean frowned. The words from the letter kept coming back to him. What had it said - something about a depth of feeling that this skin had, more than usual for a Hades. Empathy, Dean thought. This Hades felt it all too much, so he shut it all down.

If there was one thing Dean knew all too well, it was the desire to shut down his feelings, every single one. He felt his expression sliding into understanding, and quickly smoothed it out as best he could, not wanting to distract Hades from the conversation with his face doing the wrong thing.

“So, right now - when you were smiling -” he pressed, though hopefully not enough to make Hades’ patience ebb. He wanted to understand, wanted to show he understood - wanted, probably stupidly, for Hades to know that he wasn’t alone. Inside his own head, he sneered at himself just a little.  _ Sure, the Lord of the Dead himself is just dying to hear about what he has in common with you. Pun intended.  _

“I have been experiencing… feelings,” Hades said. He sounded disappointed, Dean thought. Perhaps even contemptuous. “Ever since the passing of Missouri. My - my heart…” He looked faintly disgusted by himself for mentioning it, but Dean offered no judgement, and he pressed on. “My heart. It aches for her loss. Less so, now, than it did before, but…”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah,” was all he could say. “I know how that goes.”

“I used to only sit and dream,” Hades said. “I never even moved. I just sat here, in this room… when Missouri came, I would talk with her. But I would feel nothing. It is only now, when she is gone, that I realise…” His voice trailed away, and died. Dean could only nod again.

“You didn’t know what you had, ‘til it was gone,” he said, still speaking slowly, still keeping his face even. An old thought, but he knew the pain of living it. His parents - his thoughts stuttered over thinking of them - they’d always been a solid constant in his life; fixtures, things that would never change. It was only after they were gone that he’d realised they’d been people, real  _ people _ , not just the columns that held up his sense of security.

“I thought I had turned off my heart,” Hades said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I felt nothing. Now, I… I think that perhaps I only pushed away everything I felt, hid it from myself. Ran away from it in dreams. And now, I begin to feel all the things I’ve been running from…” He turned his face up to meet Dean’s eyes. “I wish I could go back to feeling nothing. I wish I could push it all away again. I didn’t mind not having my own things, before. I didn’t mind not having company. I did not mind it when Missouri was not here…”

The slight downturn of Hades’ mouth was, Dean knew, more than the equivalent of his own tearful breakdown in his bedroom upstairs. How did you comfort Hades, Lord of the Dead? He looked a great deal less threatening with his shoulders sloped downwards, his eyes filled with sadness. Though on the outside he was still, within his own mind, Dean let out a sigh. He wanted to say  _ something,  _ even if it was something stupid.

“I don’t know how to turn feelings off,” he said awkwardly. “But I know that - that good ones come along with the bad ones. You lose people, but…” He swallowed hard.  _ No expression, remember. _ “You meet people, too. New people. You feel new things. You get older, and it gets better. Or something.”

Hades looked at him, as intently as ever. Dean lifted a shoulder.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he said. “It’s you who’s supposed to be teaching me to be a god, not me teaching you how to be human. And probably doing a shit job of it.”

Hades raised his hand once more, and Dean tried hard to flatten his face - what expression had he made without meaning to, this time? But the tip of Hades’ finger ran along one side of his bottom lip, pushing gently upwards: curving it into a small smile. 

“I thought I was supposed to be -”

“It’s only practice,” Hades said. “I think - maybe - we should both smile while we can.”

They shared quick, shy, fragile smiles with each other; Dean felt suddenly self-conscious, even a little overwhelmed. Hades’ face - the way it grew more familiar, in a good way - it was shifting things inside him. Not in any huge, awesome way; small shifts, as though testing the possibilities.

_ I like that plan,  _ Dean meant to say, but somehow what came out was, 

“I like your smile.” He bit his lip, and cursed himself and his stupid flustered runaway tongue.

Hades’ eyes brightened in a way that Dean never could have predicted; Dean felt his eyebrows raise in surprise, his own smile reappearing.

“Thank you,” Hades said. “I like yours, too.” They watched each other for a few moments more.

Dean cleared his throat. They looked very determinedly at opposite ends of the room.

**

“So what do I gotta do to get some dinner round here, anyway,” Dean said. They were still sitting on the floor of the throne room, cross-legged and opposite each other. Dean’s hands were clasped loosely, his shoulders rounded since he was leaning forwards ever so slightly. His eyes were on Castiel’s.

Castiel smiled at him tiredly. His throat was dry from talking, explaining out some of the parts of the gods’ world that Dean might not know. He thought he’d covered everything, but there were, apparently, still things of which Dean was not aware.

“Any food you eat in this place,” Castiel said, “is a service. Any service must be repaid. This is a rule that cannot be broken.”

At the words, Dean stopped and blinked into nothing, just for a moment, in exasperation.

“What’s that mean?” he said. “If I eat… ?”

“You stay,” Castiel said. “It is a binding. I can give you no food, if you wish to be able to come and go according to the contract. The Panathenaia will be over soon. You would not wish to be trapped here, just for the sake of a meal.”

Dean opened his mouth to disagree, and then closed it, his expression changing, a deeper frown appearing.

“What?” Castiel asked, pausing as well.

“I just thought - what will happen to you? After the Panathenaia, I mean?”

Castiel watched him seriously.

“I will search for the true Persephone,” he said. “I will have a whole year to find them.”

“And what about… after you find them?”

“Afterwards?” Castiel frowned. “How do you mean? I will return here to Hell, as normal. With them.” He wished he could picture that better; when he tried to see the face of the true Persephone in his mind, he drew a blank. In his mind’s eye, he led a faceless figure in the Persephone’s robe down the very same hall in which Dean and he were sitting, now. He tried to shake off the thought, confused as to why it was an uncomfortable one. “Weren’t you hungry?” he said, to try to distract Dean.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dean brushed him off, all trace of hunger apparently forgotten in his quick concern. “I meant, what happens when you turn up at the Panathenaia next year with a totally different Persephone? They’re going to know that I was a fake. Or they’re going to think the new one is a fake. There can’t be two Persephones, right?”

Castiel paused. He’d thought of this, of course - it had crossed his mind as soon as Dean had offered the bargain, back in the graveyard. What would happen when Dean went home, and he was left alone, once more without a Persephone?

“I thought,” Castiel said slowly, “that I would tell them you - you died.”

Dean gave him a long, blank look.

“Cheerful,” he said. Castiel nodded.

“It is not a preferable course of action,” he said. “But it is the only way I can think of to explain you leaving. There is no resignation from the post. It’s for life, you see. You have to die at the end. Otherwise, the divinity won’t pass on. Normally the gods can sense another god’s death, but in this case, since you’re so new, I think I will be able to convince the rest of the gods that they didn’t sense the shift in divinity because it had barely settled in you.”

Dean seemed to accept this, though he still looked uncomfortable.

“Aren't… aren't  _ you  _ supposed to - you know… because Missouri -”

“I should be the next to pass,” Castiel said steadily. “But tragedies happen. Your supposed death will be mourned by all the gods.” Dean shifted uneasily. “And you can go home, to your brother, and forget this ever happened…” He broke off.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean scoffed. “Forget I went to the Underworld.”

“I can take the memories from you,” Castiel said. “If you think that would make you happier **.”**

“What? No,” Dean said, with a vehemence that surprised Castiel. “I don't want to forget.”

Castiel inclined his head in silent acquiescence. Dean fidgeted with his jacket hem, something clearly weighing on his mind.

Castiel waited for him to speak, or to resolve the problem in his own mind.

“So…” Dean said, at last. “Does that mean that once I’m gone, we’ll never meet again?”

Castiel allowed himself a dry smile.

“Yes,” he said. “You’ll be safe from me.”

The words didn’t quite seem to get at what was bothering Dean, but Castiel didn’t know what else to say. It would be too dangerous to ever try to see Dean again after he went home. If he were caught visiting, and the gods realised that Dean was alive, both of their heads would roll.

Besides, it would hardly be difficult for them to go their separate ways. Dean could go back to Sam, and Castiel would bury himself completely in the search for the true Persephone. Their time would be full up. Dean being here would be like a dream.

“So you’ll be OK, though,” Dean said. “I won’t be leaving you in trouble.”

“No,” Castiel said, and then reconsidered. “Well. You’ll be leaving me in less trouble than you found me in.”

Dean grinned.

“You were the one who found me,” he said. “Remember?”

Castiel smiled slightly. The Dean standing in front of him now already seemed very different to the person who’d stood so fiercely in front of his brother in that dark graveyard. Though perhaps, Castiel thought, that had more to do with the fact that Castiel knew him better, rather than because Dean had changed in any way.

“I remember,” Castiel said aloud. “You looked petrified.”

Dean scowled, and folded his arms.

“Well, you turned up looking like something that crawled out of a nightmare’s nightmare,” he said. “Next time, try a lighter touch. A bit of light chit-chat before I’m dragged down to Hell. ‘How do you do’, ‘isn’t it a lovely night in this graveyard’, that sort of thing.” Dean grinned, and Castiel gave him a look - one that felt new on his face, somehow sharp and soft both at once. Sharing a joke, he thought. We’re sharing a joke.

“Being Lord of the Dead doesn’t allow for much social time,” he said dryly. “Next time, I’ll make sure to practise before accosting random mortals.”

“Accost is right. You practically took my head off with that sceptre.”

“I was at  _ least  _ ten yards away from you.”

“As if,” Dean said. “Oh - wait, yeah, I forgot. You had to be that far away, so I wouldn’t notice you were floating a foot of the ground to look taller.”

Castiel glowered at him, a little prickle of embarrassment curling up against the inside of his chest.

“You are the most irritating mortal alive,” he muttered, turning away. Dean beamed as if it were a compliment. The more he saw it, the more Castiel found himself liking Dean’s smile. 

For the first time, it occurred to him that the sentiment might be a dangerous one. Dean was not the Persephone. Castiel could not grow attached to him, beyond natural compassion.

“Anyway,” Dean said. “About that dinner…?”

“I cannot give you food,” Castiel said again, more firmly. A thought occurred to him; for a moment, he considered Dean, not sure whether he would like to hear it. “But - I can take your hunger away.”

“Take it away?” Dean repeated. He looked sceptical. “Would you have to use the sceptre?”

“I have power in my hands,” Castiel said. “Of a different kind. I can bring about gentle deaths. If you want, I will lay your appetite to rest, for now.”

“A gentle death,” Dean said, unconsciously rubbing his stomach.

“Not permanently,” Castiel said. “I will give it back.”

Dean didn’t seem in the slightest bit keen, but when his insides gave a long, low growl, he sighed.

“I can’t last til the Panathenaia on no food,” he said. “So… OK. Take it away. And while you’re there… can you make me stop being tired, too? I guess we don’t have time for sleep, you know, since we leave for Olympus so soon.”

He looked so serious; the way he spoke made Castiel feel something - something he couldn’t name. He only knew that it was a little  _ fierce,  _ somehow, warm and bright and everything he knew a god most certainly should not be.

“I’ll take that, too,” he said, as coolly as possible. He began to move his hands, tiny beckoning motions. He hadn’t used his power, the skill he had in his own two hands, since Missouri had passed.

He managed to think about her without hurting too much, and experienced a brief flicker of pride that quickly turned to guilt. He was moving on too fast; soon he wouldn’t feel sad at all when he thought of her. That could never happen.

He laid down Dean’s hunger and his tiredness, set them to rest. Dean ran his hand over his stomach.

“Huh,” he said. “No more being hungry.”

Castiel inclined his head. He wasn’t sure whether Dean sounded pleased or disconcerted.

“Just a bit closer to being dead than before,” Dean said, and that cleared up the issue. Castiel frowned.

“It isn’t for long,” he said, a little sharply, and it had the desired effect; Dean seemed to snap out of his miniature reverie.

“Sorry,” he said. He looked around them at the hall. They were only yards from the door, with one huge wall rising sheer behind Dean, and the floor fanning out seemingly forever on every other side. “This place… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a little macabre. Brings out the morbid thoughts, I guess.”

Castiel lifted a shoulder.

“I never noticed,” he said, permitting himself a thin smile. “I am always a model of light and joy.”

Dean nodded solemnly.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s all those pastel colours you wear that really add that extra touch of life.”

Castiel smiled, dipping his head. He found his fingers fidgeting with his dark, rolling robe. Dean was silent, letting him think - or probably caught up in thoughts of his own, Castiel corrected himself. Thoughts of home, maybe. Thoughts of light. A sudden idea occurred to Castiel, and his head snapped up, drawing Dean’s eyes.

“There’s a fire,” he began - a bad place to start the explanation. He frowned at himself, speaking before he thought. “That is, there is a fire, in the Underworld. Would you like to see it?”

Dean’s eyes brightened, and he nodded, unfolding his legs from beneath him with a sigh and getting to his feet quickly, ready to go. Castiel still couldn’t understand why Dean seemed so happy to leave the throne room, or why he had been so reluctant to come back. It was the place where Castiel had rested for years, sitting in silence. It was more his home than anywhere in the world. 

As he left with Dean through the door, Castiel cast a glance back over his shoulder at it. It was wide, and empty. And dark. For the first time since he entered it, as a child, Castiel saw it not as a room, but as a void; a lack. There was nothing in it but dead air, and at the top, the thrones - seats for the rulers of the chasm before them. Rulers of nothing. Lords over the endless promise of  _ nothing. _

Castiel swallowed. He understood, all too quickly and with perfect clarity, why Dean did not like this room. He was suddenly uncertain whether he himself truly liked it, too.

He closed the door behind him and led Dean through the palace, walking in companionable silence until they reached the room where the fire burned in a great grey hearth as tall as Castiel himself. As soon as he walked into the room Castiel felt the familiar wave of heat wash over him, the sensation always exotic over his cold, pale skin. He turned to look at Dean as he entered; Dean's eyes widened to see the leaping flames, burning bright and warm.

“I thought they’d be all blue and cold,” Dean said, holding out his hands and stepping closer. Castiel watched from a few paces back, letting himself keep to the shadows. The room where the fire was kept was smaller than most of the other rooms in the palace, though still huge enough to swallow entire houses from the mortal world. There were shelves lining the walls, filled with dried herbs and bottles of ichor, little magics. The firelight played over Dean’s rough clothes, his face, his tattoo. 

“Why did you choose flowers?” Castiel asked. When Dean turned to look at him, confused, Castiel nodded his head down at the floral design inked onto his arm.

“Oh, this? It's just flowers that mean stuff to me, I guess. That one’s gladiolus, it’s for my dad. Symbolises strength and integrity. Then there’s forget-me-not, those are for Sam. And the pink carnation, that’s for my mom. It’s for a mother’s undying love, they say. I just thought it’d be a good way to keep them with me wherever I go… all of them. Even though Mom and Dad aren’t with us anymore, I still wanna feel like I’m close to them. Sorry, I’m rambling...”

“No, not at all,” Castiel said, and meant it. He'd found Dean's questions and talk wearing at first, but he found himself growing used to the sound of Dean’s voice filling up the spaces. _Not getting attached,_ Castiel reminded himself. He shouldn’t. He _couldn't._ There was no future for them. Dean had to go home in just a couple of days, and Castiel had the true Persephone to find.

Castiel caught himself wondering whether the true Persephone would look as beautiful to him, in the firelight, as Dean's face did now; whether he would feel a little ache behind his heart of missing them, even though they were still there in front of him. Surely he would, he thought. If he felt it with Dean, who was just - just a random mortal…

Dean turned to look at Castiel, a smile on his face, and Castiel lost his ability to call Dean ‘just’ anything. He felt the ability actually slip away from him, with a little twist inside. He returned the smile Dean offered, hoping he didn't look worried or sad.

“What?” Dean said, smile slipping away. Castiel sighed at himself internally. Too transparent. That would be no good on Olympus, and it wasn't much good now, either. If Dean suspected that Castiel harboured any kind of real feelings for him, he might find it awkward to pretend to be… to pretend to  _ care  _ for each other.

“How are we going to love each other?” Castiel said abruptly. Dean's eyes went wide, and Castiel hastily clarified, “Pretend. How are we going to pretend to love each other?”

Dean lifted a shoulder awkwardly.

“Do we have to decide?” 

Castiel looked into the flames, so that he wouldn’t have to meet Dean’s eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was that he had to hide, but he couldn’t help the feeling that if Dean met his gaze, he’d reveal more than he wanted to show.

“I think it’s for the best. If you’re pretending to be my… that is, if I am…”  _ If you are pretending to love me like a brother, I cannot pretend to care for you in… another way. _

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Well, uh. Which do you think would be better? You know, uh, which would be more convincing?” Dean’s face looked serious - almost a little too serious, as though he were acting it out. Castiel pulled a similarly studious face.

“Well,” he said. “Traditionally, the bond is usually somewhat romantic. However…” He tried not to seem too keen, shrugging ever so slightly. “As I said before, anything would work.” Why was he suddenly so desperate to not seem too enthusiastic? His preference one way or the other wasn’t  _ that  _ strong, was it?

“No, well,” Dean said. “If you think that, uh, that it’d be better to do it romantically…”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel said.

“No, no, me either, it’s just, if you’re saying -”

“I’m not saying that we  _ have  _ to do it that way, I’m only saying that  _ traditionally _ -”

“Yeah, yeah, exactly. It’s tradition, so…”

“So that’s the way we could do it.”

“If you want,” Dean said.

“I don’t mind one way or the other,” Castiel said, and was passably impressed with his own impression of aloofness.

“Well, neither do I,” Dean said. “I don’t mind even more than you don’t mind.”

“I mind less than that,” Castiel said.

“That’s stupid.”

“Like you, then.”

They glared at each other for a long moment, Castiel all too aware of how hard he was working to seem angry, when he didn’t feel angry in the slightest.

“So we’re decided,” he said. “Romance.”

“Sure,” Dean said nonchalantly. “Great.”

Castiel assumed that Dean’s cheeks were flushed with the heat of the fire. That was the only possible explanation - the only permissible explanation, rather, since anything else would have Castiel’s heart beating a little faster, would make his own cheeks redden.

“Would you like to see something?” Castiel said aloud, to distract himself from the increasingly worrying flow of thoughts through his mind. “This is no ordinary fire.”

Dean face shifted into discomfort; Castiel recalled, a little too late, that Dean no longer felt safe in the presence of his magical abilities.

“It’s nothing to do with the sceptre,” he said. He frowned. This couldn’t go on. “I meant what I said before. I will not use it to control you, ever again. It was a mistake that I will never repeat.”

“I - I know,” Dean said, though he didn’t sound at all sure. His expression did relax a little way, however, and he cleared his throat. “So… what’s this thing, if it’s not to do with your sceptre?”

Castiel moved to stand squarely in front of the fire, gently nudging Dean to the side with his elbow. He reached into the pocket of his robes and drew out the same herbs that he’d used before, to speak to Hera - only this time, he left out the rosemary. He had no desire to send far-reaching words, tonight, only to look. He threw thyme into the flames, and a drop of ichor; the tongues of fire swallowed them up greedily, burning briefly in cold blue before a window seemed to open and grow, showing a picture that gradually grew clearer.

Castiel turned to Dean.

“Olympus,” he said.

Dean, his mouth slightly open, moved closer to the fire. He stared, and stared. Castiel couldn’t help himself watching Dean for a long moment, and then another - but eventually he blinked and changed his focus to the picture of Olympus before them, too.

The garden was in darkness, but it was still stunningly beautiful, framed by the columns of the temple that housed the Eternal Flame. Dryads were moving softly between the trees, their skin giving off a gentle, syrupy glow that illuminated the flowers, the waters, the distant buildings. Above them, the night sky was wide and close, the stars silent and cool.

“It’s amazing,” Dean said. “I thought it’d be - more rocky. More harsh, I don’t know.”

“It’s not so cruel as you might think,” Castiel agreed. “It has an unsurpassable beauty.”

A figure wandered into view, wearing a long silver dress. Castiel narrowed his eyes, and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Hera,” he said, looking at her. He felt Dean go tense under his touch, and let go.

“That’s her?” Dean said, speaking in a whisper. “Can she hear us?”

“No. She can see us, if she chooses to go to the temple. But she cannot hear.”

Even still, they watched in silence. She moved through the night with a step as light as a cat’s, but with all the power behind it of a panther. She was mesmerising, Castiel couldn’t deny it. He hated her for her thirst for his blood, but he couldn’t help admiring her for her sheer beautiful strength.

“She’s something,” Dean said, when she moved out of view. Castiel looked over at him, and saw that Dean looked a little shaken, his shoulders narrow.

“What is it?” he said, and Dean shrugged.

“Nothing,” he said, a little too brazenly. “Nothing. I just - it’s just - we’re really going. To the  _ gods.  _ And, you know. If I screw it up, if they realise I’m not the true Persephone…”

“You will be safe,” Castiel said. Dean shook his head.

“Didn’t you see her? She looked like she could take my head off with a flick of her fingertip.”

“And you think I would let her?” Castiel demanded quietly. Dean glanced at him, frowning, the thought obviously a new one. 

“You’ll... ?”

“I meant it when I said I would be with you always. No harm will come to you on Olympus. This is my promise to you. I will protect you as long as I am able.” The fierce feeling that had awoken in Castiel before found its flames fanned by his own words, rising up inside him proudly, a hot song in his chest. Dean looked taken aback, his eyes wide.

“So if it all comes down…”

“I am the one who started this. I am the one who will pay if it crumbles. You will not suffer while I can stop it.”

“Well,” Dean said. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He looked a little overwhelmed, Castiel thought. Though he was the taller of the two of them, he seemed small. Castiel let his eyes linger over Dean’s face, the soft curves of it. It occurred to him - not for the first time, but more strongly than ever before - how fragile Dean was.

“Protective spells,” Castiel said, and Dean jerked his head away from the picture of Olympus. With a wave of his hand, Castiel sent the image up into ash. “Let me think. Rowan. Furze. Hawthorn…” He walked along the lines of shelves, opening jars and taking pinches of the contents. Missouri had always tended to his stocks of woods and herbs, making sure that he had plenty. He had hardly needed them, before; now, he finally found himself grateful for her care.

Again, too late, he thought. Too late.

He turned back to Dean, who was standing still, watching him with his arms stiffly by his sides.

“Are you gonna spell me?” Dean said. Castiel nodded.

 

“These magics will keep you safe,” he said, bending down to kneel on the floor, his great black cloak laid out behind him. He could feel the weight of it, the power in it. He drew it into himself. The spells would hold all the stronger if he cast them with confidence.

“How - how many are you doing?” Dean said, as Castiel began to scatter the powdered woods around Dean’s feet in a complex pattern, drawing lines with them.

“All of them,” Castiel replied. He drew out his phial of ichor from his pocket, and dripped a little into the wood ash, smearing it through. He kept drawing, forming a full circle around Dean’s big brown boots, with complex spirals that swirled inwards. He began to mutter to himself, calling up words in the older tongues that he knew. The air in the room began to move, the shadows curling differently in the corners, the flames billowing higher.

“Does this mean it’s working?”

“It’s working,” Castiel replied. He kept drawing and speaking, brushing his fingertips over Dean’s boots; the ichor hissed a little over the mortal fabric, but left no visible mark.

“Is this really necessary?” Dean said, when Castiel straightened up, a little of the mixture still streaked on the pad of his thumb.

“Rowan, furze, and hawthorn, for safety,” Castiel said, and the flames climbed higher, the air in the room grew thicker. “Ichor, for divinity. The gods will not be able to sense your mortality behind the spell.” He reached up his thumb, and pressed the mixture to Dean’s forehead, drawing an eye of protection. Dean gasped as the ichor hissed and spat, white smoke curling off his skin in otherwordly strings, but it did not scar his skin.

“You are protected,” Castiel intoned. “You are safe from watchful eyes. You are safe from blades and poisons, from ill luck and bad curses. You are safe, in the name of Hades.” The last of the mixture burned away from Dean’s forehead, at the same time as the ring around Dean crisped to nothing, too. The flames sighed back down to their usual height; the air stilled.

Dean let out the breath that he’d obviously been holding.

“Is it done?” he said. Castiel inclined his head. He felt a little more tired than he might have done, if he’d used the sceptre - but there was a more personal magic without its cool influence, one that he hoped might be stronger, more subtle.

“It’s done,” he said.

They both subsided to the floor in front of the fire by silent agreement, watching the flames and occasionally glancing at each other.

After long, long minutes, Dean finally said,

“Keeps going round in my head - what’s gonna happen tomorrow. The worst-case scenarios.”

“Try not to think about it,” Castiel said.

“We should prepare more. You could tell me more about -”

“I don’t want to overfill your mind, Dean. With the strength of the spells, and my protection, and what you already know - we should be able to get by. Try not to take it too seriously.”

Dean stared at him.

“This is life or death for you.”

Castiel smiled dryly.

“What’s it to you, then?”

Dean was silent for a long time.

Eventually, Castiel said,

“I can give back your tiredness, if you like. You can sleep until it’s time to go.”

He looked over at Dean in time to see him bite his lip.

“Will you be lonely if I sleep?” Dean said. Castiel blinked at him. Lonely? The thought had never occurred to him.

“No,” he said. “You’ll still be here, anyway.” He reached out his hand, and touched Dean’s forehead - not that he needed to, but it was easier to reach for Dean’s weariness and call it out through touch. Dean’s brow felt warm under his fingertips.

When he took his hand away, Dean yawned. He stretched, and lay down on his back on the marble floor. Within moments, his breathing was regular and heavier, his eyes closed and his face relaxed.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel said softly.

Dean didn’t reply, but his lips moved a little. Maybe he was answering in his dream, Castiel thought.

He determinedly did not watch Dean at all, throughout the hours he slept. After only a few minutes, however, he moved close enough to bundle the folds of his cloak under Dean’s head for a pillow.

He opened the window to Olympus once more, and waited quietly for the dawn.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean woke up quickly, jerking into full consciousness with a gasp of indrawn breath, sitting up.

Everything in the room was the exactly the same as it had been when he’d left it, slipping into sleep as fast and easy as a baby. He’d dreamt of Hades, and of Olympus, and of hundreds of eyes on him, watching him, waiting for him to say the wrong thing or trip or act ungodly in any small way…

He heard the swish of material moving behind him, and turned around to see Hades on his feet, looking down at Dean with a complicated expression.

“Morning,” Dean said, his throat grimy with lack of water and breathing the heated, ashy air in the fire room all night. He coughed, and Hades reached out tentatively; at Dean’s nod, he brushed his fingertips lightly over Dean’s brow. The sensation of thirst eased.

“That’s quite a trick,” Dean said, taking Hades’ hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. His bones ached a little after a long night on the floor; he stretched, easing the feeling back into them. He blinked wearily, hands on hips. In his stomach was a cold expectation that the fire couldn’t heat; the window to Olympus, still open, showed the picture of a crisp, pink dawn.

“Is it time?” Dean said, his nerves building. Hades inclined his head. 

“It’s time,” he said. “Are you ready? There’s still time to change your clothes… there’s still time to back out, if you want.”

Dean stared at him blankly. Back out? That would mean leaving Hades in the lurch, and sacrificing his one chance of getting Jess back for Sam. When he thought of Olympus, filled with ancient beings able to kill him with the snap of their godly fingers, he had to admit that it still seemed a little tempting to run for the hills - or for the river, Dean supposed, thinking of the slow-flowing Styx that guarded his only way back home. But he couldn’t just walk away.

“I signed the contract,” Dean said. “Isn’t that thing binding?”

“Not if we both agree to nullify it,” Hades said. Dean looked at him askance. There was something different about the way that Hades was treating him; something new in the glances he sent Dean’s way. The distance wasn’t there, Dean realised. The hesitancy. Maybe it was the fact that Dean had spent all of last night curled up next to him, probably snoring. And Hades had stayed beside him, and Dean had been safe; there was an intimacy to sleeping, Dean knew, that changed a relationship. Sharing a space and trusting each other.

He cleared his throat. All the better that Hades liked him more; it might save Dean’s life on Olympus. And if they managed to make it through, then it would surely make it less likely that Hades would betray him, and tear up the contract once he had what he wanted out of Dean, right? From an objective perspective, Hades enjoying Dean’s company was a very good thing.

And Dean was, of course, being completely objective at all times. The fact that Hades was looking at him more warmly, smiling more readily, touching him more easily… these were things that were useful, that was all.

“So - do we walk through the window?” Dean said, turning to look at the view of Olympus. Hades shook his head, regretfully, Dean thought. 

“There is a tradition,” he said, beckoning for Dean to follow him. He walked out of the fire room and into the corridor beyond, and then turned left up some stairs. They began to climb.

“A tradition?”

“The Panathenaia is a time for celebration,” Hades said. “But it is also a time for prayer and for sending votives to the gods. And it is a time for the gods to hear them, and grant them, if they can.”

“I remember you saying,” Dean said, recalling his history lesson with Hades in the throne room. “But what does that have to do with... getting to Olympus?”

“Everything,” Hades said heavily. They continued to ascend, staircase after staircase. “It is tradition for the gods to come to Olympus carried on the backs of the prayers in their name, so that they can hear them, and not ignore them.”

“On the backs of the…?” Dean repeated uncertainly. The idea meant nothing to him. “How does that even work?”

Hades did not answer, only continued to climb up endless steps.

“Are we going to the top of the palace?”

Again, Hades made no response. Dean concentrated on climbing, his legs already feeling the burn of effort. The cold stone of nervousness in his stomach kept growing heavier, weighing him down. What if he said the wrong thing immediately? What if the gods knew at once that he was a fake? What if he let Hades down, what if he got Hades  _ killed _ , just because he didn’t know the right way for a god to - to use their knife and fork, or something?

He let out a sigh, trying to calm himself. The climb was stealing his breath, and it went on and on. The stairs were starting to snake in a circle, now, as though they were ascending a tower. Dean lost himself in thoughts that went round and round in time with the steps he was taking... Hera had looked so powerful, so effortless, when he’d seen her last night. The very sight of her made his skin prickle. If she were to see through him...

“We’re here,” said Hades suddenly, drawing closer to a door at the end of a corridor - one that was ever so slightly different to the myriad of identical doors they had passed on the way here. Dean stared at it, frowning at the design - it looked like a bridge of some kind, carved into the surface of the door.

Hades turned to him, his eyes weighted strangely.

“I will need my sceptre for this,” he said. “I will not use it on you.”

Dean couldn’t deny the way that his throat closed up at the thought of that amount of power being back in Hades’ hand - but he also had to admit that Hades seemed genuinely regretful about what had happened in the throne room. The fact that the choice over whether Dean’s body was his own or not rested in Hades’ hands when he carried the sceptre - that was something Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to, but he could put up with it for a little while. He thought he was willing to try, at least, for the sake of the way Hades had given him a safe place to sleep. Somehow, that made a difference.

“It’s OK,” Dean said. “It’s OK, do it.”

Hades put out his hand; immediately, almost eagerly, the sceptre materialised into his grip in a little burst of blue-white flame. Dean eyed it for a moment, and then looked up into Hades’ eyes, and saw a look that he trusted. He smiled, trying to show that he wasn’t on edge.

Well, no more on edge than any mortal about to head into the lap of the gods, and lie to them all.

Hades raised the sceptre, and gently placed the top of it against the door, right over the design of the bridge. A spark of the blue light that the sceptre commanded flicked onto the door, and lit up the design in bright colours; there was an ominous, slow creak, and a sigh, and then of its own accord, the door was thrown open in a sudden burst of brilliant, terrifying, unexpected light.

Sky. All Dean could see was sky. It took his breath away after what felt like an eternity in the gloom; the light washed over him, bountiful and generous, bright and fresh from the newly-dawned sun. Dean took in a breath, and it tasted like mist, and cold, and unlimited space.

“We walk,” Hades said. Dean looked at him, and then back to the door. As far as he could see, there was only wide blue sky outside; no sign of a road, or a bridge, or anything that would be good to walk on.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Uh, you have remembered that I’m - I’m human, right? I can’t fly, or whatever it is you’re going to do?”

Hades didn’t look at him. The longer Dean watched him, the more it seemed as though he was preparing himself for something, something he didn’t want to do. His jaw was set tight, and in his blue eyes was a steeliness that Dean recognised from the first time they’d met.

“Hades?” he said, and received no reply. Instead, Hades took a deep breath, raised his sceptre, and took the last few steps to the door - and then stepped out. Dean couldn’t stop himself giving a shout and reaching after him, grabbing onto the back of those dark, roiling robes - he braced himself against the door jamb -

But Hades did not fall. He stood in the air, and turned slowly to face Dean, who dropped the robe.

“Come,” Hades said. He was standing on something that Dean could almost see - the longer he looked, the more he caught glimpses of something silvery and intricate swirling under the robes just around where Hades stood, that caught the light every now and then… “Dean,” Hades repeated. “Come on.” Dean met his eyes. There was an expression on Hades’ face that Dean didn’t quite understand; it was tense, dark… almost -  _ pained. _

Dean shook his head, not understanding - but then Hades put out his hand, and Dean took it.

“I don’t like heights,” Dean said, resisting Hades’ light pull.

“No matter where you are in the universe,” Hades said, “you are always high above somewhere else, and far beneath a thousand billion other things.”

“Great,” Dean said, raising his voice over the sound of the wind as it picked up. Dean peered down again, and could see nothing but blue, and blue, and a smattering layer of clouds. If there was a ground down there for him to hit, it’d be a long fall before he reached it. “I’ll remember that as I smack into the ground after I fall, OK?”

“You won’t fall,” Hades said. He squeezed Dean’s hand, the gesture small and - and not quite what Dean had expected, somehow, too much the act of an equal to an equal than a god to a mortal. “I have you. You won’t fall. We have to go.” He gave Dean’s hand another gentle pull. Dean screwed up his eyes, gritted his teeth, held his breath - and stepped out.

His foot landed on something soft, like a cushion. At the same time, he heard a tiny voice murmur in his ear  _ Please, Hades. Give her back. I need my wife… _

Dean recoiled so hard that he almost lost his grip on Hades’ hand - but Hades was immediately behind him, his body holding Dean’s steady. Dean put down his other foot and heard  _ I beg you, give it back. It was only just born… _

He leaned into Hades, his heart pounding. He didn’t recognise the voices that he heard, but he knew the sound of pain, the sound of loss, better than he knew the backs of his own hands.

“What is this?” Dean said, finally managing to right himself.  _ I loved him so much. If you only knew… _

“It’s the prayers,” Hades said bleakly, moving out from behind Dean. With every step, he winced. Dean bent down, his frown deep. The floor beneath him, though barely visible, felt solid enough. He put his hand on it.  _ The fire, I should have stopped her, I never knew - _

He clenched his fist, and felt it close around something. He scooped it up and looked at it, squinting to catch sight of the translucent substance…

“Words,” Hades said. “They’re words.”

Dean’s mouth fell open.  _ I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye,  _ he read, and heard a soft, broken little voice whisper the words in his ear. It sounded like a little girl.  _ My dog. I didn’t get to say goodbye... _

“As I said, we walk on them to Olympus,” Hades said, his voice tight and harsh. “It’s the tradition.”

“There’s so much pain,” Dean said, standing upright. “They’re all about pain.”

“They’re all about loss,” Hades said. “Death brings loss. Loss is pain. This is how it has to be.” The words had a hollow ring to them, as though they were something that he’d been told, not something he truly believed. It was Missouri’s words that Dean heard now, remembering the letter that she’d left in the light room.  _ He has a depth of feeling like I've never seen before... I have tried to impress upon him the importance of keeping the old rules alive and strong. _

“You walk on this every year?” Dean said. The little girl’s voice was still in his head, haunting. He tried not to move, so that he wouldn’t have to hear more. On all sides blue space stretched, thin and empty.

“They are always there,” Hades said. His face looked different in the full light - not so pale, not so thin. For the first time, Dean was aware of Hades’ physical strength, his health, even as his expression twisted into profound sorrow.

“Always?”

“I can hear them whenever I listen for them. Like you can always feel your heartbeat when you put your hand to your chest. They are always there.” Hades held himself very still, taut as a bowstring.

“You can always… hear them,” Dean repeated, not able to comprehend the horror of it. To always,  _ always  _ be able to listen to the sounds of the grieving… Dean’s head spun at the thought.  _ She used to have hands like mine… I can’t look at my hands without seeing her… _

“I don’t listen,” Hades said. “I told you. I feel nothing, and it’s for a good reason.”

Dean swallowed hard.  _ I miss him so much. Please, Hades, give him back.  _

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I get that.”

He and Hades stood still for a long moment, backs curved under the weight of the words that they couldn’t shut out. The wind blew over them, but Dean wasn’t chilled by it - as though even the breeze itself shied away from adding to his sadness.

“We must go,” Hades said, eventually. Dean pressed his lips together. Every step would mean a new voice, a new person weeping, begging him for mercy that he didn’t have the power to bestow. They began to walk together, side by side, Hades so rigid that Dean was afraid to touch him.

_ Don’t let her go through the Lethe, hades, she needs to remember… I loved him, Hades, I’m begging you, I’ll do anything… Take me instead, only let her live, please, she was so young… _

“Can’t you turn it off?” Dean asked, putting his hands over his ears. Every step was a torture. “Make it stop?”

“Of course I can,” Hades said grimly.

“ _ What? _ ”

“All I have to do is grant their prayer.”

Dean stopped in his tracks. The full dread of Hades’ position washed over him in a terrifying wave. To hear the cries and be powerless, that was one thing - but to hear the cries and know that you  _ could  _ stop them, but that you  _ shouldn’t - _

“I’m guessing it would be bad if you did that.”

Hades considered him.

“Reverse death, and allowed all the dead to return to life? Yes. It would be bad if I did that.”

“But - there’s so much loss - so much pain…” Dean said, unable to express himself properly, to think clearly with the sounds of the grieving filling him up. “How could the world be worse if you took that away? If we never had to lose anything, ever?”

They walked on, Dean looking at Hades, waiting for an answer. Hades said nothing. There was no answer, perhaps, Dean thought.

“What did Missouri used to do?” Dean said. Hades lifted a shoulder.

“She told me it was the way it had to be,” Hades said. “She told me that loss is a part of the fabric of existence. She told me that it was a rule that could not be broken.” He recited the words dully, his dissension long quashed by years of following Missouri’s instructions, Dean could tell. She sounded as though she had been fairly formidable. Even still, if Dean had the power to reverse the pain of so many people, he had no idea how he would stop himself from using it.

“I don’t know how she could hear them and not want you to help them,” Dean said. Hades shook his head, and made no response.

The road up to Olympus was long, and below them was only blueness. Above them was the same. They walked without reference of their progress, listening to the sounds of other people’s pain, Dean feeling the ache in his chest doubled, tripled, multiplied a hundred thousand times by all the loss that was all around him. He could only imagine that Hades felt it, too. And so much worse than he ever had before, if Missouri was to be believed.  _ He will understand truly, for the first time, the pain that he causes… _

Hades still looked thin and sad and too fragile to be touched, like a glass knife that would shatter under the slightest press and be destroyed, hurting Dean in the process.

Dean didn’t care. He reached out and took Hades’ hand. There was something there that was worth the shattering of the knife.

Hades was cold under his touch for a long moment - and then his hand moved and curved, and gripped Dean’s in return.

It was easier to bear, Dean thought, with his hand in someone else’s.

They walked on.

**

Olympus appeared, over the horizon.

Dean saw the glass spire first, rising up into the sky like a spear of pearlescent white diamond. He raised the hand that wasn’t intertwined with Castiel’s and pointed.

Hades nodded, his head bowed. The prayers were unrelenting, they went on and on.  _ There were only two more days til he was supposed to come home… She said she was feeling better… They had so much left to do, Hades, give them back… _

They walked onwards, slowly but steadily approaching a huge, columned gate that rose into view. When Dean looked down, now, he could see the sheer grey slopes of a great, stony mountain, rising like a behemoth through the ocean of blue sky with its white cloud foam. He kept walking. The columned gate grew nearer, and Dean approached it with trepidation strong enough even to drown out the sounds of mourning in his ears. Soon, he’d be among the gods; being watched by their prying, all-knowing eyes. A sliver of his dream returned to him, the sensation of being stared at and judged…

The first step onto solid ground jarred him, the place where the prayer road met the mountain coming as a surprise that brought him to a standstill. The stone under his feet felt unnatural and cruel after so long on the soft prayers - but then, Dean felt the voices of sorrow in his mind fade away. He let out a little silent breath of relief, and turned to look at Hades, who was unbending his shoulders, the expression on his face lifting.

“We’re here,” he said, his low voice weary with the tension. “We’re here.”

Dean’s ears were ringing with the silence. After a moment, he squeezed Hades’ hand and let go. 

They stood together on the edge of the entrance to Olympus, the columned arch that formed the gate rising bright and clear in pale stone overhead. It had images chiselled into its surface, but Dean’s mortal eyes were too weak and far away to be able to see any of the details; instead, he focused his eyes on the wide, green gardens beyond, and the path that wove up the mountain to the tall glass spire that Dean had seen from the road.

“This is Olympus?” Dean asked. Hades nodded, the lines under his eyes more pronounced than Dean had ever seen them. Dean smiled, a little lopsided, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, I mean, it’s alright. I feel like they could have made more of an effort to stand out from the crowd with the whole prayer road…  _ thing,  _ though. I’ve seen it a  _ hundred  _ times.”

He gave Hades a little nudge with his elbow, and received a smile in response - a little weary, perhaps, but still warm and sincere.

“Come,” Hades said. “The gods await.” He offered his arm to Dean - a strangely courteous gesture, until he remembered.  _ Right.  _ From this point on, they were in love. They were  _ desperately  _ in love. The world had never seen a connection more profound than theirs.

Not really, of course. It was just pretend. But there were eyes everywhere, and ears everywhere, he could imagine - the dryads that he’d seen walking through the trees here in the flames last night just one example of what could be listening. Dean took Hades’ arm, and cleared his throat.

“I can’t wait to share this with you,” he said. It came out a little forced, but it wasn’t bad for a first effort. He squeezed Hades’ arm. “Our first Panathenaia.” He said the words like they mattered, like there were going to be many, many more of them, that he was looking forward to. Hades glanced at him, his expression a little alarmed, before Dean saw him deliberately relax it, slowing down his emotions. And there was another thing Dean had forgotten. Walking like a god. Talking like a god.

He slowed down his steps, pushing back his shoulders and raising his chin. Hades lifted the corner of his mouth in an approving smile, Dean saw out the corner of his eye, and Dean gave him a little wink in answer - too quick to be divine, almost too quick to be seen at all. Together, they walked towards the main building of Olympus, Dean too lost in concentrating on his walk and his face to be able to truly take in the splendour of the gardens around him, the incredible freshness of the air, the unparalleled beauty of the glass spire. Hades seemed equally distracted, Dean thought, on the few occasions he glanced over; his eyes were glazed over, and he seemed buried in his own mind.

They reached the glass door of the spire, and paused outside it. Dean looked at Hades, making sure his expression gave a slow, dignified impression of deep affection. At least, that was his intention. He was vaguely concerned that it might look more as though he had a toothache.

“Ready?” Hades said again. Dean nodded, tired of the build-up, the waiting, the constant pit of anticipation in his stomach - and yet, at the same time, wanting the real test to never begin.  _ Better to get it over with,  _ he thought to himself.  _ Come on.  _ He drew up an image of Sam in his mind; Sam, with his arm around Jess, smiling into the sun. Dean steeled his determination. He was here for a reason, and he was going to see it through.

“Ready,” he said. Hades nodded, and pushed open the door to the spire.

Inside, it was even more beautiful than even Dean, with all his worries and troubles, could possibly ignore. The walls of glass rose, sheer and smooth, in a delicate and elongated oval shape that stretched upwards and beyond, twisting out of mortal sight. At ground level, the place seemed to Dean to be at least the size of a large house, completely open plan, with chairs and tables of simple, elegant design scattered over patterned rugs; greenery laced every surface, with colourful flowers strewn throughout. At the centre of the room, the focal point, Dean could see a grand fountain, several times as tall as he was, with water that sprayed up in a delicate fan out of a circular, aquamarine pool.

“Nice place,” Dean said, before he could stop himself. Hades cast him a half-glance, and Dean pressed his lips together.  _ If in doubt, say nothing,  _ Dean remembered Hades saying. That was good advice that he should probably take.

“Hades,” came a voice from across the room - and, with a skip of his heart, Dean caught sight of his first god, in person.

Other than Hades, of course, Dean reminded himself. Just because Hades was on Dean’s side, it didn’t stop him being one of them.

The god in question was reclining on a lounge chair, wearing a simple short chiton and holding a glass in one of his hands. He looked short, and had a beard… Dean tried to remember the faces that Hades had shown him, in the throne room of the Underworld palace.

“Zeus,” Hades said, sparing Dean the worry. “You look well.”

Zeus set down his drink and stood, confirming Dean’s suspicion: he was far shorter than Dean would ever have imagined Zeus to be. Nevertheless, Dean thought, as Zeus strode nearer, somehow managing to move in a straight line through all the furniture between them, his stature didn’t seem to compromise his aura of power. If anything, he seemed to be more concentrated, more compressed than the taller Hades.

“Brother,” Zeus said, clapping Hades on the arm. Hades accepted the gesture with a little stiff nod of his head. “How was your walk?”

“As it always is,” Hades replied. He spoke slower than Zeus, Dean thought; it leant him a greater air of authority, made him seem more godlike in Dean’s eyes.

“And this,” Zeus said, turning his eyes onto Dean, “must be your new Persephone.” His blue eyes, so similar to Hades’, lingered on Dean’s face. He held his breath, wanting to pray that the spells Hades had cast would hold, that Zeus would be fooled into thinking he was divine - and then realising that today, of all days, was perhaps not the best time to be saying his prayers.

“Well done,” Zeus said, and the tension went out of Dean at the exact same time as he noticed Hades letting out a breath. “And welcome, Persephone. Would you like to share your mortal name?”

Dean felt Hades press his arm in warning, and smiled as coolly as he could, before shaking his head.

“Thank you for your welcome,” he said. “I’m still getting used to being the Persephone. I’d prefer to go by that name, for now. I think it would help.”

Zeus eyed him for another long moment, and then raised his shoulders in a shrug. Another mortal gesture, Dean noticed. He couldn’t help feeling as though Hades had played up the other gods’ expressions of divinity, made out that they were all just as sombre and slow as him, when in fact Zeus wasn’t so different from any of the guys that Dean might have met in his village at home.

Zeus snapped his fingers, and a sizzle of lightning sparked between them. He rubbed his palm together absently the lightning sparkling between his fingers.

Dean swallowed. Zeus was, perhaps, still a  _ little  _ different to the guys in his village.

“Showing off in front of the new blood, brother?” said a new voice, from further across the room. Dean peered over Zeus’ head - which wasn’t difficult, given how tall he was. Coming towards them was a tall, dark-skinned woman with amused brown eyes. “Little cheap, don’t you think?”

She came closer, and Dean could see that she was wearing something completely different to Zeus - tougher material, ribbed and tight, that looked more appropriate as seaware than as formal clothing…

_ Poseidon,  _ said a voice in Dean’s head, as he remembered Hades’ pictures. She came up to their little group, greeting first the unsmiling Hades, and then Dean.

“Raphael. The Poseidon,” she said, holding out her hand for Dean to shake. He wondered, briefly, how gods shook hands. Firmly, he supposed, and grabbed her hand in a strong grip. Raphael’s eyebrows raised. “Just as much grit in you as there was in your predecessor, I see. Though you’re a different kettle of fish, anyone can see that.”

“Well, you’d know  _ all  _ about fish, wouldn’t you, darling?” said someone who approached suddenly, appearing at Dean’s elbow and wrapping his arm around Dean’s neck. Dean found himself being hugged, very suddenly, by someone at least as tall as he was.

“Dionysus,” Dean heard Hades say. “Release my Persephone, at once.”

“It’s Balthazar,” Dionysus said, releasing Dean, but keeping close to him. Dean, feeling uncomfortable, shuffled closer to Hades. The gods were proving to be both nothing like he’d expected, and everything he’d feared - more human-like than Hades, but with none of his quiet kindness, his thoughtful silence. “You aren’t going to get all possessive about this Persephone, are you,  _ Hades? _ You were fine about sharing the last one.”

Dean felt Hades go taut, and leaned into him a little, trying to use his body to show support. Because  that was what the  _ real  _ Persephone would do, Dean thought. It wasn’t because he  _ wanted  _ to do it.

“Yes, I’ll miss Missouri,” said Dionysus, or Balthazar, whatever it was that he was called. “But at least this model’s prettier. Come on, Persephone. Surely you’d like a little taste of the wild grapes.” He made a lewd gesture, and grinned. Dean felt his lips pinch in prudishly around the corners, his anger coming naturally, no need to pretend.

“Don’t joke about Missouri,” he said. Balthazar rolled his eyes.

“‘Don’t speak ill of the dead’ type, I see. You must fit right in down in the Underworld.”

“Dionysus,” began Zeus threateningly, but Balthazar shrugged him off.

“I’m stopping, I’m stopping. Don’t get your chiton in a twist.” He shifted restlessly. “Where’s Hermes?” he demanded, of no one in particular. Zeus lifted a shoulder, and then clicked his fingers.

Immediately, right beside him, there materialised in the blink of an eye a figure only just taller than Zeus, with long brown hair and lighter eyes. The immediate impression that Dean received was one of twinkling, determined mischief.

“Everyone,” said the newcomer, whom Dean assumed was Hermes. “Panathenaia weekend again! What are we waiting for?”

Balthazar reached into the inside of his loose, dark clothing, and withdrew an implausibly large glass bottle, filled to brim with shining red liquid.

“For you, Hermes,” he said, offering the messenger god the first sip. Hermes complied easily, the wine staining his lips at first taste. He grinned.

“Then I think,” he said, “that it’s time to get this party  _ started. _ ”


	10. Chapter 10

Even though Hades had told him that the Panathenaia would be a party, Dean realised at around midnight that he hadn’t entirely counted on how  _ big  _ a party it would be. More and more minor gods seemed to keep appearing left and right; Dionysus plied every guest with wine as soon as they entered, and by the time evening came, it wasn’t only the god of wine himself sporting red cheeks and a loud, exuberant attitude. 

“Who think I can throw the satyr  _ in _ the pool?” yelled Artemis, and there were squeals and cheers from the crowd surrounding her. Dean, standing a few yards back with Hades at his side, shook his head.

“She can’t do it from there. Satyr’s too heavy.”

Hades narrowed his eyes.

“She’s stronger than you and me put together. She can do it.”

They were both still clear-headed, themselves; Dean had steered quietly clear of the wine that was obviously more potent than mortal drink, and Hades had similarly refused. It was too nerve-wracking, Dean thought, to be even thinking about losing their heads and letting go, like the rest of the gods all around them. They had too much to hide, too much to lose if they misspoke.

Artemis threw the satyr with a loud grunt. It soared through the air, and splashed neatly into the fountain pool, where it laughed snortingly along with the spectators and kicked its hairy legs.

“Never underestimate the huntress,” Hades said, and Dean nodded.

“I’m not underestimating anyone here,” he said firmly. And it was true. He couldn’t stop his eyes roving over the crowd, searching for that one suspicious face, that single sly look that would signal the crumbling of their lie.

“Not even me?” Hades said. He met Dean’s eyes, properly, for what felt like the first time all evening. The hard face that he wore around his siblings had faded just a little, and at the corners of his mouth Dean thought he could see little uptwists, ghosts of the smile that he’d teased out more fully in the Underworld. He felt reassured, somehow, that it was still there - that Hades didn’t inexplicably hate him, or wish to ostracise him.

“Especially not you,” Dean said, and was rewarded with a little twinkle in Hades’ eyes. He really was very handsome, Dean caught himself thinking - and then quickly shut himself down.  _ No. Not happening. You can like spending time with him, sure, but you can’t do  _ that.  _ He’s  _ Hades.  _ You’re just Dean. _

_ Except that tonight _ , a deeper, more treacherous part of Dean’s mind whispered,  _ tonight, you’re Persephone… _

Dean pushed the thought away. He couldn’t risk building any real feelings for Hades, any deep attachment. They had so little in common, they barely knew each other, and all too soon, Dean would be going home, anyway.

Dean looked over at Hades, who stopped staring at Zeus trying to hit Poseidon with a lightning bolt long enough to catch his eye.

“What?” Hades said.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped - and then thought,  _ well, he’ll think I’m only pretending, anyway. _

“I was just thinking,” Dean said. “About how confusing all this is. But I’m glad… I’m glad it’s you, you know? That I’m doing it with.” He was shocked at how much easier it was to say how he felt, when he was pretending that he didn’t mean it; it was like wearing a mask, like becoming anonymous.

Hades’ eyes brightened, though Dean saw the hint of confusion there - the slight hesitancy. He wasn’t sure whether Dean was speaking the truth. He himself was barely sure, so it was no wonder, Dean thought.

“I feel the same way,” Hades said. “On the bridge here… your support… it was invaluable. I dread that walk every year. There’s no escaping the words.”

Dean reached down and took Hades’ hand, simultaneously aware of how this would look good for their image, and how much he truly wanted to do it.

“I’m glad I could be here,” he said, the words a little tinged with sadness. He wouldn’t be here next year, to help in the same way. On the one hand, Dean never wanted to make that walk ever again. On the other hand, the idea of Hades making that walk with someone else, next year - it burned, just a little more than it should, Dean thought. A little prickling of real jealousy that didn’t suit an imposter.

Hades squeezed his hand. He looked a little awkward about the public intimacy of their joined hands, but not to the point where he wouldn’t allow it.

“I’m glad you could, too,” he said. Dean heard the mirror of his own sadness, the pair of them a couple of dark, shadowed corners even in the middle of the dark room, lit once again by the natural radiance of the dryads who were at the party, some of them hanging back by the walls, others drinking Balthazar’s apparently strong concoction and joining in with the raucous festivity.

“Lovebirds!” said a loud voice, and a hand clapped down on Dean’s shoulder, drawing him closer to Hades. Looking down, Dean saw a head poking in between his own body and Hades’ dark robes: a head with long brown hair, and wicked light eyes.

“Hermes,” said Hades warily, extricating himself from the strange three-person hug that Hermes had initiated. “What do you want?”

“Why, only to say hello,” Hermes said, looking mockingly offended at Hades’ tone. Dean watched him cautiously. “I barely greeted the greenie in our midst. Persephone, it’s my pleasure.” He offered a long, low bow. “And how are you liking your new lover?”

Dean’s cheeks were immediately and unmistakably reddening; he could feel the heat in them, and hoped it wasn’t showing in the dark.  _ Pretend, Winchester. Come on. _

“Plenty,” Dean said, trying to sound the right mixture of coy and casual. Hermes gave a little hoot, attracting the attention of several other gods around them.

“So, you two are traditional Hades and Persephone!” Hermes said, and Balthazar grinned, making a crude motion with his hips.

“Yep,” Dean said uncomfortably, before remembering that ‘yep’ wasn’t an especially godly thing to say. “That is… yes.”

“Actual lovebirds!” crowed Hermes.

“Real life lovebirds,” agreed another voice from behind Dean and Hades. Dean felt Hades go completely still; the hand that was still holding Dean’s felt suddenly stiff as a board under Dean’s touch. Even before he turned around, Dean knew who he was going to see; and, of course, there she was. Resplendent in her red lipstick, with eyes as bright as the shine on a knife, and a beauty dreadful enough to enrapture ten thousand mortal hearts - love that she never wanted, would never give back.

“Hera,” Dean said, greeting her when Hades remained silent.

“Persephone,” Hera said, her voice as smooth as velvet stroked the softer way. Dean swallowed hard at the hot, fierce look in her eyes; Hades hadn’t been wrong, she didn’t seem opposed to him, and yet there was still something pure and animalistic about her that frightened him.

Hermes stuck his head back through the gap between Hades and Dean, grinning.

“So who tops?” he said, and Hades made a noise of disgust and pushed him away, dropping Dean’s hand. “What? I’m just asking the question we’re all thinking!” He looked around at the crowd, and Dean was dismayed to hear a significant amount of cheering; more and more guests were paying attention to them, and Hera was right behind in front of them, waiting for Dean to make a mistake.

“Nice that you managed to find the Persephone at all, Hades,” Hera purred. “I was concerned that you were struggling.”

“Yawn,” Hermes said. “Who wants to see them kiss?”

Dean heard the words and it felt as though a plug had been pulled in his chest. When the cheering and clapping started up again, he closed his eyes for a brief second, hoping that it would all have been a dream when he opened them.

No such luck, however. He chanced a glance at Hades, who was watching him with an expression on his face that was - Dean couldn’t immediately place it; he thought it lay somewhere between embarrassed and almost  _ sheepish _ , as though the kiss were already a foregone conclusion…

“Yes, Persephone,” Dean heard Hera drawl. “Kiss your lover, Hades.” He looked over at her, and she smiled. Wanting him to refuse, he realised. Waiting for him to prove that he didn’t love Hades, didn’t enjoy his touch, didn’t want to kiss him or hold him.

That explained the look on Hades’ face. If they didn’t kiss, everyone would take it as a sign that they didn’t truly care for each other. All eyes would be on them, in confusion.

Dean looked at Hades, his heartbeat beginning to speed up. So… the kiss was really happening? Dean raised an eyebrow at Hades, just a fraction. Hades tilted his head half an inch in Hera’s direction, and then flattened his lips. Dean understood; it was exactly as he’d thought. They had no choice.

The noise around them was growing to deafening levels, as the crowd bayed for their kiss, clapping and stomping their feet. They had seconds, Dean knew, before the group decided they weren’t going to do it, and turned on them. Well, it was not a big deal anyway, right? He could kiss Hades. He was the  _ Persephone _ , after all, he was  _ supposed  _ to kiss the Hades. This was all part of the job description, part of the pretence. Nothing more than that.

Hades was standing still, waiting for him to move. It was his quietness, the way his eyes locked with Dean’s, that made up Dean’s mind. Hades wouldn’t kiss Dean; Dean had to kiss Hades. The choice was left up to him. Everyone was watching - if Dean could have picked a place for a first kiss, this might have been the last possible one - but even still, he leaned in, and he put his hand on Hades’ cheek, and - with his heart racing faster than he thought it might ever have done in his life - he pressed their lips together in a soft, shy, dry little kiss.

He pulled back. Everyone around them was yelling for more; Dean looked to Hera, who had her eyes narrowed. Dean frowned, and looked back to Hades, who was…

Dean paused. There was a look in Hades’ eyes that somehow seemed to make it all melt away - the guests, Hera’s watchful eyes, even the fact that Hades was a god and Dean was a mortal; suddenly, everything was about Hades’ lips, his soft eyes, his hands that were reaching out to rest on Dean’s hips, draw him a little nearer…

This time, their kiss was longer. Dean leaned into it, every inch of his focus concentrated on the feeling of Hades’ lips under his, how he kissed unexpectedly sweetly, how strong his hands were on Dean’s body; Dean forgot about the crowd completely as his racing heartbeat turned into the bassline of a song that went  _ more, more, more… _

Hades gently pulled away first, this time, his hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Dean gasped into the little space between their lips, his eyes flicking up to meet Hades’, wide and confused. The sounds of the crowd slowly returned to his sphere of attention, and he pulled away too, and quickly. His skin was on fire, his lips tingling, wanting more. Dean bit the lower one into his mouth, blushing against the approving whoops and catcalls of the guests, who began to gradually lose interest.

“Nice one,” Hermes said appreciatively. Even Hera, her doubts apparently quenched for now, had disappeared into the throng.

Dean leaned closer to Hades, keeping his voice low.

“Can we get out of here? I want to go to bed,” he said - and then realised how that sounded, and quickly backtracked. “I mean - I mean, I’m tired. Can we go?”

Hades met his eyes; some of Dean’s panic must have been showing there, because Hades nodded, and took his hand, and began to lead him away.

“Atta boys!” Hermes called after them. “Use my room, it’s a king bed!”

They walked out of the room, Dean’s cheeks burning, his head filled up with the memory of the taste of Hades’ mouth. He let himself be led away, Hades’ sceptre glowing blue in the dark as they disappeared out and away.

**

Castiel could barely think. His body - his quiet, still, serene body - had  _ betrayed  _ him. Betrayed him utterly and completely. In recent days, it had been behaving against his will, providing him with heartache, and with mortal gestures, mortal expressions; but now, its treachery had gone too far.

He’d been kissed by Dean, and he’d kissed  _ back.  _

The feeling had washed over him like a tidal wave, too great and powerful to be stopped; a need, a desire to have Dean close, close, closer, to kiss him longer, to hold onto him and not let go. His heart was still pounding in his chest - the heart that had been so still, so quiet, barely beating enough to keep him alive before. And he hadn’t felt a thing. And he had been  _ fine  _ with it.

He let go of Dean as soon as they were out of sight of the party guests, stepping fast, fast enough that he knew Dean would get left behind unless he ran. Castiel didn’t care, he  _ didn’t,  _ he didn’t  _ want  _ to. The living quarters on Olympus were in a separate building from the spire, a stronger, warmer brick house, held up more by merit of architecture than magic. Castiel stormed through the gardens and slammed the door open, Dean coming stumbling in after him at a fast jog.

Inside, the place was quiet. Everyone was at the party. The corridor, dark and yet obviously tastefully furnished, was still.

Castiel didn’t wait for Dean to catch his breath; he strode up the stairs. He had his own bedroom here, and so did Dean, but they were separate with single beds, and Hermes had offered Castiel his own bedroom - the Styx  _ curse  _ him - and it would set arise to awkward questions, if they were found sleeping separately after so obviously leaving together. So now, on top of everything, he had to share a bed with Dean.

He pounded through a labyrinth of corridors, half-hoping that Dean would just get lost, so that Castiel could have two seconds together without him, just to  _ think _ , to calm his mind, to send his stupid, treacherous body back to the way it was before, when it didn’t do any of his decision-making for him…

But Dean kept up gamely all the way to Hermes’ bedroom, and when Castiel pushed open the wide doors, they entered the room together. Castiel let the sceptre fall to the floor as soon as he walked in, the metal clattering against the marble. He didn’t do it for Dean’s benefit, he told himself. He just didn’t want to hold onto it, didn’t want its weight in his hand.

He found himself mildly surprised by the restraint that Hermes had shown in the decoration, which seemed to be a classy blend of purples and soft whites - until he reached the raised bed, pulled back the covers, and saw that the sheets were leopard-print satin. He let out a long, low sigh.

He could sense Dean standing behind him, not saying anything, only breathing a little hard after the flurry of arriving here. Castiel listened to the sound of it - the price of the thoughtlessness he’d shown, Dean’s little suffering. He closed his eyes.

“Sorry,” he ground out. Dean’s breathing went quieter in response. Castiel was suddenly aware, even more so than before, of how alone they were. Somehow, when they had been together in the Underworld, it had only been them. Now that they were here, now that they’d -  _ kissed  _ \- it wasn’t just that it was only them; it was also that they were  _ alone. _

Castiel didn’t turn to look at Dean; not yet. He knew he needed to give himself more time to try to get himself together, to flatten his face, to let his emotions sink back down to the bottom of his self, where he couldn’t feel them.

“Sorry for what?” Dean said, eventually. Castiel looked around the room, and shrugged.

“For almost leaving you behind. Back there…”

“It was a lot,” Dean offered, when Castiel tailed off. Castiel nodded. He felt weary, suddenly, more than he had done in years and years - a tiredness that went down to his bones. He turned at last, and saw that in the soft half-light of the room, Dean looked just as wrecked.

“So,” Dean said. “I guess… we’re sleeping in here tonight?”

Castiel lifted his shoulders. Another shrug. Another  _ I don’t know.  _ He used to be an absolute, an unshakable promise, a rule that could not be broken.

“Hermes offered us this room,” he said. “If we sleep in two singles, it’ll look like we had a fight. It might be better this way. We can avoid awkward questions in the morning.”

Dean eyed the lone bed, huge and empty.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Awkward questions about a fake fight, or awkward questions about our sex lives. Our fake sex lives.” Dean flushed. The way that he’d needed to add that ‘fake’ made Castiel cringe internally. Was he really being so transparent that Dean already needed to ram home the fact that he was only playing along, and it was all pretence? Had he felt the need in Castiel’s touch, in his hands, in his kiss? Castiel shuddered.

“We’ve already fended off a few of the second type,” he said. “And it’s less likely to get us caught.” He kept his voice down. Even in private bedrooms, on Olympus, you never knew who might be watching.

Dean nodded, looking resigned.

“As long as I can sleep,” he said, “I don’t think I really care.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Castiel offered. He shouldn’t really need to sleep much at all, and comfort was barely necessary - for years, now, he had been sleeping on his throne, not bothering to go upstairs to a bed - but tonight, when he was feeling less divine and more full of stupefying mortal emotions than ever, he found himself craving the warmth of a bed, the comfort of it.

“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said. “There’s enough room for both of us and two elephants in there.” 

“The elephants might not like the leopard print,” Castiel observed, and Dean laughed. It was better like this, Castiel thought, with a sense of relief. It was easier. When it was just the two of them, he had it under control...

Dean walked up to the bed and stood beside Castiel, who raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was a puzzled, and not attempt-at-seduction, kind of way.

“I like the left side of the bed,” Dean said. Castiel rolled his eyes, and seceded his position, moving around the bed to the right-hand side. Once he was there, he paused. Should he take off his robe? He hadn’t slept in a bed since he could remember, but the idea of getting in with his cloak and his boots on seemed unnatural. He looked up and met Dean’s eyes, and saw that he, too, was stuck in the same predicament.

Castiel sighed, and closed his eyes.

“You first,” he said. “Take off what you need to and get into bed. I won’t look.”

He’d thought that Dean would argue, but almost at once he heard the sounds of shuffling, and clothes being removed. He took deep, slow breaths, trying to stop his cheeks reddening through sheer force of will, and doing his best to think of anything,  _ anything,  _ that wasn’t the way Dean was tugging off his clothes only yards away from him…

“It’s OK,” Dean said. “You can look.” Castiel opened his eyes to see Dean folding up his jacket, still wearing his darker top underneath and what Castiel thought, possibly, was a pair of underwear, though he very determinedly was  _ not  _ looking at them. Dean climbed into the bed, his expression lifting at the feel of the smooth, silky sheets. “Come on, get in. You’ve got to feel these.”

Dean closed his eyes, just as Castiel had done. He screwed them up tight, even, so that there was no way he could peek. Castiel watched him just for a moment, allowing himself a single second’s appreciation, and then began to pull off his own clothes.

The Hades’ robes required no cleaning; they were woven of magic, like all the gods’ attire. As Castiel took them off for the first time in so, so long, he felt himself unwinding. The clothes were  _ him,  _ and he was them; without them, without the sceptre, he wasn’t even Hades. He was just… nothing.

He kept taking them off anyway, reckless, angry. Crown, gone. Cloak, gone. Boots, gone. Underneath, he wore a plain dark chiton, sleeveless, that cut off halfway down his thighs; it would be decent enough, he thought.

“You can open your eyes,” he said, willing himself not to sound shy. He turned around as he folded up his clothes and set them down on a lowslung armchair nearby, not wanting to watch Dean look at him, at his body -  _ his  _ body, not Hades’ - for the first time. No matter what he saw in Dean’s face, Castiel knew that his betrayer’s body would probably not forget it, would probably ache and hurt and long for it.

When he headed back to the bed and climbed in, Dean’s eyes were carefully averted.

“Sorry for dragging you away from the party,” he said. Castiel slid his legs under the covers, quietly marvelling at the softness of the sheets. Leopard print or no leopard print, they felt  _ good. _ Dean saw him enjoying the feel of them, and grinned. “Good, right?”

Castiel tried not to look too hard into Dean’s smile; he wasn’t entirely sure, in the mood that he was in, what it might do to him. He lay back, resting his head on the pillow, and stretching out his legs. His body was weighed down with tiredness.

“Not bad,” he said. “And don’t worry about the party. I never enjoy them much, anyway.”

“Maybe if we’d been able to join in…”

Castiel was quiet. The times he’d come with Missouri, he’d often attempted to be a part of the boisterous crowd - but he’d never felt quite safe enough with them to let go, and his mood had always taken a dark, lonely turn, and invariably he’d ended up on the outskirts of the action.

“Maybe,” was all he said.

“Or maybe if any of them were actually nice.”

Castiel let out a soft laugh, and pulled the covers up higher.

“They are strange, aren’t they?”

“Strange? Dude, they’re crazy. Balthazar, was it? Acting like he was too good for everyone? Hermes asking those questions? Hera staring at me like she wants to eat me and then telling me to…”

The words  _ kiss you _ hung in the air, unspoken.

“Yes,” Castiel said, slowly.

“About that,” Dean said, sounding uncomfortable. “You know that I was just…”

“Pretending,” Castiel said, a horrible sinking sensation in his stomach. Zeus, had he really  _ hoped?  _ “Yes. I know.” There was a pause, and then he added, “Of course, I was also just…” His throat seemed to close around the lie.

“Pretending,” finished Dean softly. Castiel wished he could see Dean’s face, watch his expressions, but that would mean rolling over onto his side - the start of an intimacy that Dean would likely not welcome.

“I think we have them fooled, at least,” Castiel said, with forced brightness.

“Yeah,” Dean said, also sounding more cheery. “Yeah, I reckon we do.”

There was a long pause. The half-light in the bedroom was just enough to make out the ceiling, which was so much lower than in the palace of the Underworld that Castiel almost felt trapped beneath it - and then, on his right, there was Dean lying there, a great tangle of Castiel’s feelings in his hands. It was all too new, too much. He needed to  _ sleep. _

“The others…” Dean said. “They aren’t much like you, are they?”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He swallowed hard, feeling Dean’s influence in the movement - he was copying Dean, now, without even meaning to.

“No,” he said. “They’re all very strong characters.”

“What?” Dean said. “No, man, that’s not what I meant. I just meant, they’re all kind of - they don’t move so slowly, or have that whole divinity…  _ thing _ … going on.”

Stripped bare of his clothes, his sceptre, his grand haughty attitude, Castiel saw his white-knuckle clinging to the old ways of divinity for what it was.

“It’s my crutch,” he said flatly. “Not theirs. They don’t need one. They have their own… identities. They are their own people. I am just…” He trailed off, unable to think of an ending to the sentence that wasn’t self-pitying. He began to trace the pattern in the ceiling paint with his eyes, round the whorls and swirls.

“You said that before,” Dean said. “In the light room. You said it was good I had a sense of self. You said it like… like you think you don’t have one.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. He could hear Dean fidgeting with the covers, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe if he waited long enough, Dean would fall asleep.

“You know, Missouri said in her letter that you were special,” Dean said. Castiel felt his stomach clench. “She said you had, uh. I think it was, ‘an unusual depth of feeling’, something like that. She obviously thought that you were your own person.”

Castiel fisted his hands into the covers, his mind a blur of white-water noise.

“And,” Dean said, “for what it’s worth - I’m bad at saying stuff like this, but, uh - you seem like you have your own thing. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before, that’s for sure. You’re kind, and smart, and… you know, good stuff. Whatever.”

_ You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before, that’s for sure,  _ Castiel’s mind played back for him. He folded his arms, feeling the strange sensation of his own skin under his hands. It felt new, and strange - but not bad, not exactly.

“Thank you,” said Castiel.

“You’re welcome, uh. Hades.”

Several minutes later, when he was almost sure that Dean had fallen asleep, Castiel spoke again.

“Castiel,” he said. He paused. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean made no reply. Castiel closed his eyes.

**

Castiel fell into dream.

He knew the falling well, but this time it was faster, and darker - out of control. He let the wind of dream take him, closing his eyes, settling him where it may.

_ You could have helped, _ said a voice. Castiel opened his eyes, and saw an old man standing in front of him, bent-backed, faceless.  _ You didn’t have to take him away. He was all I had. _

“I can’t help,” he said. He recoiled, but -

_ No,  _ interrupted a young girl, wearing a hat, faceless.  _ Me! You could have helped me! Where’s my mother? You took her away!  _

“No, I can’t,” Castiel said. He held up his arms, and saw that he had no hands. He  _ couldn’t  _ help. Why did they keep asking? He tried to back away, but there were more, more -

_ You took away my brother,  _ said a faceless figure in a dark cloak. He closed his eyes.

_ My husband… my daughter… my son… my lover… my best friend… _

Castiel let the words wash over him, unable to run, unable to escape. He covered his face with his hands…

His  _ hands. _

He looked down at them in horror. They were there, they were right in front of him. He’d had them all along. He’d been ignoring everyone and turning them away, but he’d had hands all along… he lifted his head, but he was alone.

Completely alone. He began to slip backwards, to fall to the ground. What did it matter?

_ Thud. _

Castiel’s slow fall was halted by a sharp judder through his body, as his back crashed into something. He staggered, and regained his balance - easier, in dream, than it ever could have been elsewhere.

He turned, impossibly slowly, and saw -  _ Dean. _

Castiel despaired. Even in dream, he could not hide from a new truth - the one that was growing stronger and stronger, the one that he couldn’t quite define, but that he knew had something to do with Dean’s smile, his lips, his eyes. His hand, on the prayer road, in his.

Dean looked just as surprised to see Castiel as Castiel was to see him. He blinked, and said,

“You look more real.”

“I am real,” Castiel said. He lifted up his arms. “I have hands. I had them all along.”

Dean shook his head, not understanding. Behind him, Castiel could see a strange, blurred image of a tall figure in a dark graveyard, arms outstretched in angry confusion.

“Dean?” said the figure, and Castiel recognised the voice of Dean’s little brother - Sam. “Are you coming back?”

Dean met Castiel’s eyes.

“I just want him to be happy,” he said. A single tear tracked down his cheek; he gritted his teeth so hard that Castiel heard it. “All I want is for him to be happy.”

Castiel nodded.

“He’ll have Jess back soon.”

“Swear it?”

“I swear it,” Castiel said. He raised his arms again. “I have hands,” he said.

Dean took one of them in his own. The ground beneath them rolled and rolled like the sea, strange and uncertain. Castiel held onto Dean’s hand, and did not let go. Dean offered no resistance. In fact, when they woke up the next morning - both with dry mouths and mussed hair from the deep, deep sleep - it was Dean who had Castiel’s hand clasped tighter, right up against his own chest.

Both of them pretended to be asleep a little longer after waking, just to hold the pose. Castiel watched Dean through near-closed eyes, the face he was coming to know so well blurred and softened under his lashes.

Finally, Dean was the one who spoke, gently extricating himself from Castiel’s grip and sitting up.

“Hey,” he said. “Time to get up.”

It would be forgotten, Castiel knew. They wouldn’t speak about it again, any of it. It was all too much, too strange. He rolled over in the sheets, frowning, trying not to let it bother him. They’d spent the night together, in the strangest of ways, and now that Dean was gone - he felt bereft. Lacking in intimacy.

And yet -

“Come on, Castiel,” Dean said, throwing the Hades’ cloak across the room. “Time to get dressed.”

He said the name carefully, trying it out.

Castiel lay still for a few moments longer. If he could have, he knew that he would have allowed himself the indulgence of sinking back into dreams, letting the sound of Dean saying his name - his true name - drift him into gentler sleep.

As it was, he got up. There was a day to face.


	11. Chapter 11

The second day of the Panathenaia was, if it were possible, the one day of the year that Castiel hated slightly _more_ than the first day of the Panathenaia. It was close, however.

He and Dean left Hermes’ room, careful to stand close together - to give the impression of a couple in love. Dean let his hand rest down by his side as they made their way back to the spire in the yellow morning light, yawning; Castiel caught himself staring at it, wondering if he should take it.

He didn’t.

“Hades,” said a voice from his left, and Castiel shivered slightly, but did not turn round. He gripped his sceptre a little tighter, drawing strength from it - and from the sight of Dean, who did turn around, and whose expression dropped into a frown.

“Hera,” Castiel said.

“Looking forward to granting your prayer today?”

Castiel clenched his fists. He saw that Dean was on the verge of opening his mouth to say something, and stepped in.

“Ready as I always am,” he replied, keeping his tone free from inflection. Hera asked no further questions, and her quick step - so much lighter than Dean’s painfully mortal pace - soon outstripped them. Dean glared after her.

“What does she mean, granting prayers?” he said aloud. “Isn’t the second day just more of the first, and then we all go home for ice cream?”

Castiel smiled. It came so, so easily to him, especially after their night together.

“No,” he said. “This is the day when the gods take turns listening to individual prayers, and can choose to grant some of them, if they want to. It’s expected that they will, in general. I, on the other hand… usually cannot grant any prayers. As you know.”

Dean cast a glance down at Castiel’s hands; he rubbed one palm over the back of the other self-consciously. _I have hands_ , he’d said in the dream. In the light of day, he was less certain of what that meant.

“What about me?” Dean said, but Castiel quickly shook his head.

“You’re new. No one will expect you to grant a prayer. Don’t worry.” He gave Dean another smile, this one softer and more reassuring, which Dean answered. The last few steps into the spire were perfectly synchronised.

Inside the great glass room, at the centre, was a loose circle of seated figures around the fountain. Dean and Castiel made their way through the furniture, some of the debris from the night before still scattered over the tables and chairs. When they reached the fountain, Castiel noticed several gods looking distinctly worse for wear, with bruise-eye bags under their glazed eyes. He smiled to himself. He’d had a divine hangover before, and didn’t envy them.

Castiel seated himself in his usual place. There was a space for the Persephone, too, all the way across from the Hades, almost completely obscured by the slowly revolving fan of water that sprang up from the centre. Dean hesitated for a moment, lingering beside Castiel, before walking around to the space and sitting in it, completing the circle.

Hera was sitting right next to him, as usual. Her smile was cut out of ruby when she looked at him, contempt in her eyes.

Zeus stood up, two away from Castiel in the circle. He reached into a dish that had been set in front of his place, and picked up a coin - one of his own tokens. Silently, he flipped it into the pool at the bottom of the fountain.

Immediately, a face rose up in the fan of water that formed the fountain, a window to another place, just like there was in the fire room at the Underworld palace - but all the stronger for being in water, and for the powerful presences of so many gods together.

“Zeus,” said the face, that of a young woman with clear grey eyes. “Please. Our crops are drying out. We need a little rain. Please…”

The circle of gods sighed and relaxed. An easy prayer to grant. Zeus stepped up to the fountain, and reached inside the window, his hand curving; Castiel wondered what Dean made of this, of Zeus’ hand going into the fountain on one side, and emerging far across the world, where the young woman lived. A brief frown of concentration, and then there was the distant sound of rolling thunder. At a quick gesture from Zeus, the window closed.

Zeus’ prayers were mostly simple enough to permit - a little more wealth, a little more rain; one of them asked for the death of an enemy, and with an uneasy look to Castiel, Zeus granted the wish with a single bolt of lightning to the spine. Castiel felt the soul slip away, and clenched his fists in his cloak. He looked for Dean’s reaction, but Dean was hidden by the fountain.

Hera came next, and as usual, her turn was even worse. She granted every wish and prayer from the coins in her basket - all of them asking for fertility, for children. When she was finished, she turned back and sat down in her place, her eyes locked on Castiel’s. She knew how he hated this part.

In front of him were coins, with his mark on them - the symbol of Hades. Castiel reached into it, and picked up one of them.

He considered it in his palm for a long moment, steeling himself. At least Dean was here, he found himself thinking. At least, when this was all over, he’d be able to take Dean home, to where he was safe, and do something good, for once…

He felt a sudden hand on his shoulder, and jerked his head up. Dean was standing behind him; as Castiel watched, Dean sat down right behind him.

“He can’t... “ Hera said, breaking the unofficial silence. Dean scowled at her. Her eyes flashed at him, and he quickly dropped his gaze - but he didn’t move from Castiel’s side.

Before Hera could speak again, Castiel threw his first coin into the water.

“Please, Hades. All I’m asking is for one little life. Just one…” Castiel sat, rigid, as the man spoke. “My little sister…”

Dean’s hand was on his shoulder, thumb rubbing, keeping Castiel grounded. He reached into the basket, and picked another coin.

“Hades, my daughter…”

Another.

“My friend, he saved my life, I have to…”

Another.

“Please, my baby…”

“ _Enough,_ ” said Hera, her pale face even whiter with rage. “He doesn’t even _try_ . This is disgusting to watch. If he won’t grant prayers, he shouldn’t _be_ at the Panathenaia.”

“Yeah?” Dean said, stepping in before Castiel could speak, his tone red hot. “Well, what’s he supposed to do? Pick the grieving father, or the grieving daughter? Or the best friend? Or the mother? How is he supposed to _choose?_ Or d’you think he should just bring them all back, and there’ll be no more death?”

“Dean…”

“No, she’s all high and mighty, but she gets to grant prayers about _giving_ babies, not taking them away! What does she know?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel said, pushing his hand over Dean’s mouth so that he couldn’t talk anymore - but the damage was already done, Castiel could see it as soon as he looked to Hera and saw the glint in her eyes. The hunger was there, raw and silent and bloody.

“Well,” Hera said sleekly. “Since Hades cannot grant any of his wishes, why don’t _you_ try, Persephone?”

Castiel hoped that Dean had done as well as him at maintaining an impassive, unruffled face.

“You’re _joking,_ ” Dean said loudly. Castiel bit his lip, fighting back the sudden, borderline-hysterical urge to laugh. “I mean, uh. I’m new, and everything. I’m not supposed to…”

“Oh, I believe in you,” Hera said. “Doesn’t everyone here believe in the Persephone?” There were murmurs of agreement throughout the group.

“Wait,” Castiel said sharply. “This isn’t right.”

“What’s this, Hades?” Hera said, her blood-red lips curved upwards. “Do you have no faith in your Persephone? Now, why would that be?”

Castiel hated her, _hated_ her.

“I have every faith in my Persephone,” he said, through gritted teeth. “But -”

“Then it’s decided,” Hera purred. She reached over and picked up the basket of Hades’ prayers, and rattled it maternally at Dean. He looked helplessly at Castiel, who opened his mouth to say something, to try to stop it - but before he could intervene, Dean had already picked up the coin, and tossed it towards the fountain pool.

**

It was a Hades coin, Dean couldn’t help thinking, as it spun in the air for a moment, before dropping into the pool. Surely there was a high chance that it would be yet another prayer for the resurrection of a lost loved one, something he could never be expected to grant?

The coin splashed into the water. Immediately, with the circle of the gods watching avidly, Dean saw an image of a tiny young person open in the water, fluttering and trembling in time with the droplets.

“Dear Persephone,” the little girl said, her voice a little low for her age; Dean felt his heart sink, even as a memory stirred somewhere in his brain - the voice was familiar, somehow. Not a prayer for Hades, then, but for Persephone. How was that possible? _He_ couldn’t have summoned a Persephone prayer to himself… Dean glanced over at Hera, who was watching him in undisguised delight. Mischief, he thought to himself. Mischief and trickery. He wished that he could call it out, but he could see no way to do so that wouldn’t reveal himself as a fraud. He contented himself with glaring at Hera as hard as he could, and then turning his attention back to the image in the fountain.

He tried not to panic. He couldn’t make crops grow, he couldn’t make flowers bloom; he had no magical powers whatsoever. He was helpless.

“D-Dear Persephone,” said the little girl again, and Dean realised that she’d been sitting in silence for some time, gathering her courage. He wondered where she was from. Nowhere near his own village, if autumn looked so cold and grey; around his house, the leaves would still be falling into the long, sunny afternoons. “I was wondering if you could bring the spring sooner this year. It’s winter and it’s so cold. And it took my dog… I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she finished, and suddenly Dean knew where he recognised the voice from - the prayer on the bridge the day before, one of the first ones he’d listened to. She’d asked for her dog back, so she could tell it goodbye. “So if you may please do that. Thank you.”

Every eye in the spire turned onto Dean.

He could see derisive smirks on most of the faces around him, and scowled. They expected him to give up. If he did, Hera would use the opportunity to undermine him and Castiel. If that happened, Castiel was in danger.

Dean got to his feet. He began to move towards the image, not certain what exactly he was going to do - and then the girl spoke again, one last time.

“I just thought,” she said, “that if anyone might understand, it would be you. Since you know Hades, and everything.”

Dean paused. He turned, and looked down at Castiel - who looked caught between getting up and intervening, and staying where he was to let Dean figure it out. Dean pinched up the corner of his mouth on one side, just a touch, but he knew Castiel would see it.

 _Castiel,_ Dean thought to himself, as he headed for the nearest table with some greenery on it, stepping outside the ring of assembled gods. He’d been rolling the name around in his mind over and over ever since Hades had murmured it to him as he almost slept; it was a strange name, but just strange enough for Castiel’s weirdness and goodness and distance to all fit into it neatly. _Castiel._

Dean picked a single flower from the top of a plant, and twisted it between his fingers. He walked back towards the fountain, holding it tightly. He’d never done this before, and he had no idea if it would be uncomfortable - but he guessed that the true Persephone would know, and so he didn’t stop to ask. Instead, he climbed into the fountain, the water splashing around his heavy leather boots, approached the fan of water with the window inside it - and lifted his foot, and stepped through.

He blinked. Soft forest sunlight was shining into his eyes, a far cry and a welcome break from the strong, bright light at Olympus’ spire. On the ground, a light frost chilled the leaves to crispness; above, the branches were bare. Dean turned, and behind him, he saw a patch of air that wasn’t quite the same as the rest - that shimmered slightly, and warped. The window was still there, then - only harder to see from this side.

“Hey,” said a voice from somewhere around Dean’s navel. He looked down to see a little girl - the one who had made the prayer  squinting up at him suspiciously. There was something in her expression that reminded him so immediately of Castiel that it made him smile.

“Hi,” Dean said. “I came because someone made a prayer.”

The girl’s eyes went round as saucers with the shock, her mouth falling open.

“Are you Hades?” she said excitedly. “Are you here to bring back my dog?”

Dean looked down into her face, and just for a moment, he was seriously tempted to tell her that yes, he was Hades, and yes, he could bring back her dog, he could fix it all, he could make everything better…

But it wasn’t so, and he would never be able to deliver. Dean bent down, crouching so that he was face to face with the girl.

“What’s your name?” he said, and that remembered who was watching through the window. Names have power, he thought to himself. “Actually, would it be OK if I called you... Summer?”

The girl nodded dubiously, and then shrugged.

“Who even are you?” she said. “Are you actually Hades?”

Dean swallowed hard, and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m Persephone.”

Just for a moment, Dean saw the girl - Summer - look utterly crestfallen. She covered it quickly, though, smoothing over her tiny face. Zeus, she was brave, Dean thought. He cleared his throat.

“Summer,” he said. “You made a prayer to me. You asked for me to bring the spring sooner.”

Summer nodded her head, her blonde hair curling over her shoulders. “It’s cold,” she said. Her little voice was tight. “The cold took my dog. And I can’t bury him when the ground is so hard. I need it to be spring.”

Dean took in a breath, and let it out gently. He tucked the flower in his hand into his pocket. It looked like this wasn't going to be a quick fix. Time to put his initial plan to one side.

“Do you have a spade?” he said.

They buried her dog together, Dean striking at the hard earth with his arms straining, and Summer scooping out the soil that he loosened. He couldn't help wondering what he looked like to the gods back on Olympus; he'd come here with a specific plan in mind, but it had all gone out the window completely when Summer had needed his help in a different way. He guessed that most of them were laughing at him - he worried that Castiel was in trouble - but every time he was on the brink of leaving, he'd look down at Summer and see her intense, shining face, and keep digging.

“Want to say a few words?” Dean said, once all the work was done, and the dog was safely buried. Summer shrugged.

“This was my dog,” she said. “I wish he'd come back and be alive.” She looked up at Dean. “And I wish you could have come sooner, and made it spring, so that the ice wouldn't have got to his chest.” She stood very still, staring down at the mound of freshly-turned earth. Dean waited. “I miss you,” she mumbled eventually. “Thanks for being a good dog.”

Dean swallowed hard, and nodded to himself. It had taken him far, far longer to reach the same moment after his parents had died - and he'd fallen back down from it many times since - but it was a good point to reach.

The wind blew gently through the trees.

Dean waited until the moment seemed ready, and then crouched down again, his head at the same height as hers.

“Hey,” he said. Time to put the original plan into action. She looked at him with her big, expressive eyes. “Hey, listen. I’m sorry, but I can't bring spring back right away, OK? I can't skip winter. No one can skip winter.” He frowned into Summer's eyes, their soft colour making him think of Sam. “You can't skip the bad stuff,” he said. “Everyone wants to, but something's going to get you one day. I'm really sorry, Summer.”

She dipped her head, her eyes full of sudden, angry tears; she was quick to cry, as only children could be.

“But, hey…” Dean said, drawing out the flower in his pocket and seeing with relief that it hadn't been crushed. “Only thing more sure than winter is spring. When all the cold stops and everything comes back to life again.” He held out the flower, and Summer hesitated for a moment before taking it.

“Spring flower,” she said.

Dean smiled at her, as gently as he could.

“You'll see them again,” he said.

She contemplated him for a long, long moment. Dean braced himself for arguments, for tears, for anger and rage and sorrow…

“Mister Persephone,” Summer said, seriously. _Here it comes. You're talking a load of crap and even a seven-year-old kid can see it._ “Would you like to build a den with me?”

Dean stared at her; his decision took less than a moment.

“You know,” he said. “I was kinda hoping that you'd ask.”

He cast a glance towards the window in the air. When he narrowed his eyes, he could still detect that slight mirage that meant it was open. Castiel would keep it open, Dean thought. He wouldn't leave.

And so, for most of the day, Dean played with Summer. She brought him sticks and branches and he planted them firmly in the ground, sloping them together to create a sturdy shelter. They didn't talk much; Dean thought that she seemed perfectly happy to potter around him, lost in her own thoughts. He, himself, appreciated the time that he could take to himself; the woods had a silence to them that was not as complete as that of the Underworld palace, but was more friendly, more welcome to his mortal stamping feet and his mortal sighing breath.

“Good stick,” Summer said at one point. Dean nodded seriously as he took it. It was still shiny with bark on the surface; he assumed that was what had caught Summer’s eye.

“Good stick,” he agreed. They were small words, small things, small sticks. Dean looked down at the barked wood in his hand, and then put it at the top of their den, where it rose above the others like a flagpole. Small things, he thought, weren’t unimportant things. He couldn’t explain why the thought felt right.

When the sun began to set, Dean set his hand on Summer’s shoulder and told her that he had to go back home, now. Her eyes went wide, but she nodded.

“Are you feeling better about your dog?” Dean asked. Summer raised a shoulder, and let it fall. Dean reached out, and squeezed it. “That’s OK. You don’t have to feel better straight away.”

“I still miss him,” she said in a small voice. “Even when you were here and I was playing with you, I missed _him._ ”

Dean sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know that feeling, too. You just gotta keep rolling forward, kid.” _Why_ did it have to be this way? He couldn’t leave the question alone. Why couldn’t Castiel use his power, overturn death, give them all back the things that they were missing?

They’d fill up the world, Dean thought. The dead would be too many; they’d fill up the whole world, and leave no space for anything new. No one could be born, because no one would die to make way.

Maybe there was an answer in that, Dean thought. He frowned, his hand still on Summer’s shoulder.

“I think,” he said hesitantly, “maybe - sometimes - things have to go, so that new things can grow.”

“I don’t want another dog,” said Summer suspiciously, with the air of someone who had been offered a reconciliatory puppy.

“No,” Dean agreed. “That’s not what I meant. I wanted to say that - that for there to be give, there’s got to also be take, you know? Like, hold this,” he said, bending down and scooping up two big stones from the floor, and giving one of them to Summer. “Now, if I take this rock from you, I can give you this one. But if I don’t take it, I can’t give you anything.”

“I didn’t want that rock anyway,” Summer said. “I have this one. It’s better.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it. She had a point, and a good one. He raised his shoulders.

“I don’t know, kid,” he said. “Maybe it’s just - you’re always going to miss the good friends who leave you. And there’s no way round it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t still have good days, right? And maybe when you do, they’re alive with you again.” He tapped his palm to Summer’s head. “In here.”

She took this in, for a moment.

“I hate death. It steals stuff,” she said. Dean thought of Castiel, sitting on the other side of the fountain and hearing her.

He swallowed hard. “You know, sometimes time takes the shine off things. Maybe - maybe sometimes, not always, but maybe sometimes - death isn’t such a bad thing, you know? Maybe it gives you something to fight against. Sometimes you need a thing to be angry with and to hate. Maybe that’s what death is. Maybe it’s just… doing its best to keep the world rolling onwards, and keep new things coming through, and taking all the crap we need to throw when we’re hurting. And it just has to keep rolling on.”

“Like us,” Summer said. “Just keeping rolling on.”

Dean ruffled her hair, and she smiled - the expression still a little frail, but more definitely _there_ than when Dean had arrived.

When he climbed back through the fountain, leaving Summer to run home through the last of the light, Dean found the spire of Olympus almost empty. The circle of the gods had dispersed, and the great glass room was bare - all except for one remaining figure, standing motionless in front of the fountain.

“Castiel?” Dean said, as though he wasn’t sure, as though he wouldn’t have known that silhouette from miles and miles away. He splashed out of the fountain, water droplets flying into the air. When he was on dry land once more, he looked at Castiel properly - and saw that his expression was a mixture of a thousand things, his eyes a little full.

“Did you mean that?” Castiel said. “What you said to her, about death… about me?”

Dean pressed his lips together, and nodded.

“You don’t blame me for doing what I do?”

“No,” Dean said. “No, I don’t. You do your best, you know. I see it.”

“So do you,” Castiel said, and Dean felt tears jerked to his own eyes, more suddenly than he was expecting. They'd been building up inside him all day, but he hadn't wanted to cry in front of Summer, especially after she'd been so brave about losing her little dog. “What you did for that little girl today… we’re all just doing our best, aren't we?”

Dean reached out his arms, and drew Castiel to him. For a moment, Castiel was stiff and unresponsive - Dean almost let go - and then Castiel’s hands came up and grasped at the back of Dean’s jacket, holding him close.

The water behind them poured serenely, in the same way that it had always done. Time moved them on, on, on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the art in this chapter was done by the amazing [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com). you can find the art masterpost [here!!](http://castihalo.tumblr.com/post/148786173695/bittersweet-heart-art-masterpost) if you have a moment, please go and give her some love!!


	12. Chapter 12

Dean and Castiel lay in their bed, facing each other.

“Everyone believes you’re the Persephone,” Castiel said. He was speaking softly. “Even Hera. She said that no one but the Persephone could answer a prayer in a way that was so long and boring.”

Dean snorted. 

“I did what I could for the kid,” he said.

“You did excellently, Dean.”

There was something wrong with Castiel’s face; there had been all evening, ever since they’d come back to Hermes’ bedroom once more from the spire. Dean couldn’t figure out exactly what it was; he looked constantly tense, as though poised to deliver bad news.

“Isn’t it a good thing?” he said. Part of him wanted to ignore it, pretend that there was nothing the matter - or, at least, that he couldn’t see that there was something wrong - but the thought of Castiel being upset, and Dean not doing anything about it... “That I passed the test?”

Castiel nodded, his cheek brushing the pillow. He had his head rested on the back of his hand, lying on his side facing Dean.

“It’s a very good thing,” he said. He smiled, and his face looked more strained than ever. “Congratulations on completing your first successful Panathenaia, Persephone.”

Dean frowned.

“Completing?”

“Completing,” Castiel confirmed. The heaviness in his voice belied his attempt at another smile. “Dean… you did it. You upheld your half of the contract.”

“What? But - I’m supposed to help you until -”

“The Panathenaia is over.”

He announced it quickly, not meeting Dean’s gaze.

“How… what?” 

“It lasts only two days, Dean. The day of the party, and the day of prayer.”

“But - but - it feels like we only just got started,” Dean said.

It occurred to him suddenly to wonder if he was talking about the Panathenaia, or about something that ran deeper. He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t  _ afford  _ to feel that way for Castiel.

“It can’t be over so soon. There must be something else. Another party, or a test…”

“It’s all done,” Castiel said slowly. 

“All done,” Dean repeated blankly, lost in thought. The thought that soon, he would be returning home - would be walking away from Castiel, never to see him again - made him feel suddenly as though he’d been walking along a grassy field, and only realised at the last moment that halfway across, there was a precipice that fell down into nothing.

“Yes.” Castiel’s eyes, those soft, blue eyes that had started so hard and cold, were focused on Dean’s chest. “Dean, it’s time for you to go home.”

“But -” Dean said, finding himself scrambling for reasons to delay. “But - wait, wait. I can’t go yet, you… wait, I really can’t! The contract!” He sat up sharply. “I did my part, now it’s time for you to do yours!”

Castiel sat up, too, but slower, as though he were in some kind of invisible pain.

“Castiel?” Dean said. He clenched his jaw. “You can’t send me home. Not yet.”

His shoulders tense, Castiel finally met Dean’s gaze. He was still wearing his robes, but he’d taken off his crown - it lay beside him on the creamy sheets, a spiked intruder in the soft, downy world of the bed.

“You’re right.” His blue eyes were intense, locked on Dean’s. “Your half of the contract is complete. It is time for me to uphold mine.”

He reached down, picked up the crown, and put it back on his head. The points ran down his cheekbones, sharpening them, making his face harsher.

“Jess?” Dean said, his mind still reeling. Only seconds before he’d been lying with Castiel in gentle quiet, and now, suddenly, it was time to go. He felt as though a little pocket of stable ground were crumbling under his feet.

“Jess,” Castiel confirmed. “The fountain is the best place to try this. I can send you down to Sam, can open a road to the Underworld for him, and we can watch his progress, all from here. The spire is unattended after the Panathenaia... all the gods are away tending their private businesses for a few days. Dean…” Castiel put his hand on Dean’s shoulder; Dean resisted the urge to pull him back into an embrace like the one they’d had before, to rest his chin on Cas’ shoulder, to ask him to stop, wait,  _ stop… _

“I thought we’d have more time,” was all he could mumble. He thought he saw Castiel’s expression flick through compassion, before it resolved into flat, unreadable lines.

“This may be the only time we have,” Castiel said. He swung his feet out of the bed. “I am in control of my own kingdom and the other gods could not stop me from doing this, if they were here, but I do not trust them not to attempt to interfere for their own selfish reasons. I would not want to bring Sam or you to their attention. It has to be tonight, Dean.”

Dean followed Castiel’s logic, hearing the truth and wishing he didn’t. He wanted to - to do it all again, to have the party again, the kiss again, the shared dream again…

He shook himself. He’d come here for a reason, and that reason had not been Castiel. Somewhere far below, his little brother was aching for the loss of someone who should never have been taken. For all his words to Summer about moving on.. Dean couldn’t bear the thought of letting Jess go to a final rest, of allowing Sam to be consumed by grief. Maybe sometimes, Dean thought, you had to change the stones, like he’d wanted to do. And maybe sometimes, like Summer, you had to clasp your hand closed, and fight for what you had.

“I’ll do it,” Dean said. “Send me down. I’m ready.”

**

The night, down in the mortal world, was still.

Dean stepped through it lightly, carefully, feeling strangely as though he did not belong there quite so much as he once had. The air tasted sweet and fresh, though cold finger winds put an edge of chill over the early autumn balm.

Dean walked up to his house - his tiny, tiny little house. The door felt smaller when he knocked on it. The plants on either side of the porch had wilted, unwatered. He waited; there was a series of sounds that he recognised - creaking floorboards, and the snap of the latch.

Sam opened the door, and then froze.

Dean held out his hands, not knowing what to do.

“You’re back,” was all Sam could say, sounding numb with shock, before he took a quick step forward and wrapped Dean into a tight, tight hug. Dean stood still for a moment, before returning the hold. At least Sam was the same, Dean thought. Big, gangly little brother. Dean hugged him fiercely. 

“Was it the aconite? Or the thyme?” Sam demanded roughly.

“The what?”

“The thyme, probably, right?”

“Thyme?”

“I burned it all last night. It’s supposed to help with throwing your voice, so I thought that if I summoned you using it…”

“Sam,” Dean said, cutting off his talk. “You’ve been looking for me, all this time?”

“Well, trying,” Sam said, and ran his hand through his long hair distractedly, a gesture so familiar to Dean that he couldn’t help reaching out, and punching his brother on the arm.

“Idiot,” he said. “I came back on my own.”

Sam’s face dropped.

“What? Hades just let you go?” he said, managing to look hopeful and sceptical, both at once. The light from the hall behind lit him up in gentle orange; Dean could make out a thin rectangle of his home, the books, the boots, the mess. It looked dusty.

“ _ Dean, _ ” Sam said, and Dean snapped back to the conversation. He didn’t want to say the words that he had to say; didn’t want to bring all of it one step closer to the end.

Dean shook his head.

“I did it,” he said. “I did what he asked. He didn't just let me go, I earned this. I’m here to tell you that it’s time, Sam.”

Behind Dean, there was the rumbling of earth. He didn’t need to look to know what he would see if he turned around: a path to the Underworld, identical to the one that he’d walked with Hades, when he’d first made his way down into Hell.

“Time?” Sam said, as though he didn’t dare believe it. Dean nodded. A large part of him wished that he could do this part, too, for his younger brother - but he knew, deep down, that it was Sam who was meant to play this part; it was to Sam that Jess would return, if she were able to do so.

“Remember the contract,” Dean warned, as he began to step back into the window through which he’d come. “Okay? No looking back. It’s simple.”

“No looking back,” Sam said, his attention already absorbed by the tunnel. 

“Not for anything, Sam. Not even if you... hear her ask you to, or something, it might be some kind of trick. You know what the gods are like. Nothing’s ever simple. Just - be careful.”

“I will…” Sam was distracted, obviously preparing himself in his own mind for what he had to do. Dean couldn’t help but feel as though his words had fallen on deaf ears. He opened his mouth to say more - and then closed it. He was only worrying and fretting. Sam knew what he was doing.

Silently, Dean stepped aside, and Sam took his first stride towards it - bold, and unafraid.

“Sam…” Dean couldn’t help saying as Sam continued to walk towards the tunnel down to the Underworld, watching his retreating back with a twist of dark premonition. Sam turned.

“I’m going to get her back, Dean,” he said. “It’ll be OK.”

Dean nodded, his uneasiness unfurling, growing, sinking deeper into him its poison fangs of fear. Sam smiled at him - a strange, weighty smile - and then walked away.

Dean watched until he was out of sight - and then longer still - before climbing back through the window, the haze of shimmering air that would take him back to Olympus.

Back in the spire, Dean stepped out of the fountain so that he could stand and watch with Castiel, seeing by the light of the dryads that glowed through the glass panels that surrounded them. He felt yet another seize of misgiving. If anything should happen to Sam, after all of this… Dean looked to Castiel for reassurance, but the sceptre was in the hand that Dean might have taken, lighting his face up strangely in blue.

“If it goes wrong…” Dean began, and trailed off. He thought he saw Castiel’s eyes flicker for a second, and his heart began to beat faster.

“There are rules that cannot be broken,” said Castiel, a cold statement.

They watched Sam descend in silence.

**

Castiel knew, in his heart, how this would go.

He’s suspected from the very beginning; of course he had. There was a reason that he’d agreed to let Sam into the Underworld; because in all likelihood, it was  _ safe,  _ as far as he was concerned - because it didn’t break the rules, the rules that could not be broken _.  _ Because it was a story that played out in his favour. Because he knew that, inevitably, Sam would turn around and look at Jess, and break the contract.

During his time with Dean, he’d not thought about it - had pushed it away. When it had occurred to him, he’d done his best to focus on the very few times when a mortal had succeeded in bringing a lost love back from the dead; he’d never known any in his own time, but his Hades half, his divine knowledge, told him that it had been done. It  _ was  _ possible. 

He’d hoped that Sam would be one of those people, one of the lucky few. He’d believed it, because he’d wanted to so badly. He’d believed it right up until the moment when he’d seen Sam’s face through the fountain, and recognised the look that he saw there. The look of Orpheus; the look of impending tragedy.

He still wanted to push it away, still wanted to hope - but in his heart, he  _ knew. _

He watched, trying his best to feel detached, as Sam walked down into the ground, taking the same path that he and Dean had taken.  _ No,  _ Castiel told himself. No thoughts of Dean. Right now, those thoughts were more dangerous than they’d ever been.

Sam reached the Styx unharmed, and walked out onto the spit of land where the ferryman normally waited to collect her tithe and carry travellers across. But not today, Castiel knew. She understood as well as he did that a story like this would not,  _ could  _ not end happily. And so she left well enough alone.

Something that Castiel had never been able to do, he thought bitterly. He should never have become involved in this family, should never have entangled his feelings. He barely knew Sam, but his heart ached for him as he bent down by the waters of the Styx, his face twisted by grief.

“How’s he know what to do?” Dean asked, as Sam pushed up his sleeves, and began to lower his hands towards the waters of the river. “Are you telling him, with the sceptre?”

Castiel did not answer. The truth, he knew, was that Sam was falling into the pattern - just as he had fallen into Hades, so Sam fell into the part that a hundred other lovers before him had played. Their story was, unavoidably, his story. And so his hands knew their place. His body knew its job. His journey knew its end.

Castiel resolutely kept his eyes off Dean, fixing them on the fountain, watching Sam as he plunged his fingers into the deep water, and closed his eyes.

“Jess,” they heard him say, as clearly through the water window as if he had been standing next to them. “Jess… can you hear me?”

Castiel closed his eyes. He did not want to look. Of course she would return; of course, blonde hair dripping, she would rise from the water, disoriented, her hand clasped in Sam’s. Of  _ course  _ she would. The stories always went the same.

Dean was going to  _ hate  _ him…

Castiel bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, if he’d had any still running through his body. As it was, the ichor in his veins swirled and healed the wound even as Castiel bit harder, making it worse.

He was powerless. The contract had been signed; he  _ had  _ to allow Sam in, had to allow him to take Jess. There was no way to nullify it, no way to take it back. They’d already come too far; Sam was already in the Underworld. Even if they all tried to walk away from the contents of the paper they’d signed, fate would inevitably draw them back together, would set them on the road to the completion of their agreement. Divine contracts were always, always seen through, to the very bitter end.

“He’s got her,” he heard Dean say. “Holy shit. He’s got her…”

Castiel shut his eyes even tighter. He heard the sounds of footsteps, and knew that Sam would have opened his eyes - he couldn’t look at Jess before they left the Underworld, but he could look forwards. She would walk behind him, and Sam’s only confirmation of her existence would be the brief, tight touch of their hands as he raised her from the river. He wouldn’t know that it was Jess; wouldn’t know if she looked well, or ill, or ravaged by the waters of death. He would be burning inside to turn around, to look…

And at some point, he would give into the need.

Castiel knew he could tell Dean what he suspected would happen - but what would be the point? The contract had been signed. The agreement had been made, and had to be honoured. Dean could try to fight it,  _ would  _ try to fight it, of course he would - but he would, inevitably, lose. It would hurt him so, so much more if he tried to save Sam and failed. It was better this way, Castiel thought.  _ He _ would be the one who failed,  _ he  _ would be the bad person - and Dean would have righteous anger, at least, to help him survive through the loss of his brother and Jess. It was all Castiel could give him, now; a chance, however small, to make it through the grief.

“They’re walking,” Dean said. “I forgot how long the tunnel is. She’s behind him…”

Castiel swallowed, hard. There was nothing he could do. He was powerless. He was  _ nothing.  _ He was a husk of a human living in a cloak that barely belonged to him, carrying a sceptre that had certainly never been his. He stood no chance against the laws of fate.

“I can only hear one pair of footsteps,” Dean said, suddenly. Castiel was biting his lip hard, so hard, and yet he could feel none of the pain. He couldn’t look… “Why can I only hear Sam walking? Jess’ feet aren’t making any noise.”

“Jess?” Castiel heard Sam say, through the window. “Are you still there?”

Castiel opened his eyes in time to see Jess move her mouth - but no words came out.

“What?” Dean said, taking a sudden step closer to the fountain. “What? Why can’t she speak?”

Castiel’s jaw was locked; he couldn’t bring himself to explain.  _ She’d have been able to speak,  _ he thought.  _ As soon as they got above the ground, her voice would have returned to her. But she’ll never make it. _

“Castiel, what -” Dean said, even as Sam spoke again.

“Jess? Is that even you?”

“No,” Dean said, his eyes wide. Sam’s gaze was flickering, his fingers clenching into fists. “Sam…”

“Jess, if that’s you, say something - tell me you’re there - do you need help?”

“ _ Sam, _ ” Dean said. Sam had stopped walking, his face panicked.

“She’s right there - Castiel, come on, make the window work so that he can hear me! Come on!”

Castiel did not move. He shut his eyes once more.  _ There are rules that cannot be broken.  _ No matter if he tried to intervene, the story would go the same way...

“Jess?  _ Jess? _ ”

Dean began to move forwards, leaping into the fountain, making a break for the window.

“Castiel, you son of a bitch, let him - she’s right there! Sammy, don’t, don’t look -  _ NO! _ ”

At the sound of Dean’s cry, the shout of his anguish sudden and  _ raw,  _ a half-scream, Castiel opened his eyes, and raised his staff, and with both hands - he  _ plunged  _ it to the ground.

A deep, low hum rang out, deep enough to shudder Castiel’s bones, loud enough to make him shake.

In its wake, instantly, everything went still.

No noise, no shouting, no panic. No movement. 

Castiel took a deep breath in, and let it out, slowly. Time was stopped, almost - or rather, Castiel had pulled himself outside of it. Dean was frozen beside him, hands raised in fists, mouth open in horror, disbelief in every line of his body, water droplets all around him as he splashed through the fountain; they hung in the air, sharply crystalline. Looking to the fountain’s window, Castiel saw Sam, his eyes slid back around, just barely grazing over Jess where she stood behind him.

For a moment, Castiel stood quietly. The light from the dryads was strange at this speed, broken up into shards of separate colour that ribboned through the dark. He wished, just for a moment, that it could stay like this, stay silent…

He set his jaw, and with an effort of will, pulled Dean into the harbour that he’d built - the lee that rested outside of time, protected from it.

“NO!” Dean bellowed again, still running forwards - but he stopped short at the window's edge, staring. “Sam, Sam - turn around, why - why isn’t he moving, I -  _ Sam -  _ is he dead? Is he turned to stone? You -” He rounded on Castiel, whirling, lost. “You - you swore he’d be safe! You swore! You can’t take him away, you son of a  _ bitch _ , you  _ can’t -  _ you swore it, you said he’d be safe…”

Castiel drew out the contract that they’d signed, which was still rolled up in his pocket. Slowly, he unfurled it, even as Dean tried to reach through the window and found it rock hard: the magic needed time moving to work.

“What have you done? What have you  _ done? _ ” he demanded, turning around to face Castiel once more, distraught. He began to walk back out of the fountain, furiously working against the way the water moved strangely, barely touched by time.

“Look at him! Now he's broken the rule and - and you're going to drag him back to the Underworld, and -  _ shit,  _ Castiel,  _ do something,  _ if you'd just -”

Castiel weathered the storm of his rage in the knowledge that it was no more than he deserved.

“You can’t be so  _ calm,  _ you just let it happen, we could have just spoken to him, told him she was there - now he’s looked at her -”

“Dean,” Castiel said, speaking at last. “No matter what we did, the result would have been the same. Trying to save him would only have led us down another path to this moment.”

Dean looked lost, tiny, small; he stared at Castiel, mouth open. All the anger seemed to have been drained out of him at once, by Castiel’s words, by the weary way he said them.

“You knew,” he said. The words hummed through the vast, silent spire, fateful. His head dropped, his gaze lowering to the floor in his moment of realisation. “You knew this would happen. You knew he’d never get out of there.” Castiel’s silence was a long, aching confirmation. Dean shook his head. “All this time… I thought I could trust you…”

“Dean, I - I never meant to get so - I thought it wouldn’t be anything like this,” Castiel said, wretchedly. “I didn’t think… I wanted to believe that he could do it, I didn’t know for sure -”

“You have to do something,” Dean said. He looked back up, and met Castiel’s gaze. His anger was back and now it was not lost and vague; it was pointed and heated like a terrible sword drawn out of the flames of a forge. “You have to do  _ something. _ ”

The silence between them was deafening; there wasn’t even the sound of water trickling over the fountain, since it was held still as they stood outside of time.

“Dean…” Castiel raised his hands, the contract still held in one of them. “There is nothing I can do. Your brother was free to make his own choices -”

“You didn’t tell him she wouldn’t be able to talk! You didn’t intervene! You didn’t  _ help _ , you  _ bastard…”  _ Dean couldn’t seem to stop himself talking, cursing and shaking his fists; Castiel could see the tears in his eyes and looked away. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to see any of this, it was all  _ wrong,  _ this was the way the story was supposed to go, but it was  _ wrong… _

He looked down at the contract, reading it over again. He got stuck over the fateful lines, the ones that would send Sam and Jess down to Hell, the second that Castiel released himself and Dean from the pause in time:  _...if he should look back at her before they exit the Underworld, then shall the lovers be cast back into Hell together, there to stay forever, with no bargaining, no pleading, and no exceptions. This is a rule that may not be broken.  _

Castiel’s skin prickled with anger. Rules. Rules that could not be broken. Fate that could not be changed. Stories that could not be rewritten. Hearts that had to be twisted to bitterness and sorrow. It was all  _ wrong.  _ But there was nothing that he could do -

“And I thought I actually  _ cared  _ about you,” Dean finished, furiously, wiping away a tear from his cheek with a gesture that was so harsh, it seemed more as though he were striking himself, a punishment for his foolishness.

Castiel froze, his eyes still locked on those two lines of the contract.

“You…” he said. “You - cared about me?”

Dean’s face contorted in anger.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I never should have cared. I  _ hate  _ you for this -”

“But you cared,” Castiel interrupted urgently. “You did care? For me?”

Dean moved fast. He took two quick steps towards Castiel and shoved him, hard; Castiel let himself fall backwards a few paces, though the push was so light that he barely felt it, Dean’s mortal strength barely a pinprick.

“You did,” Castiel said, staring at him.

Dean growled, and raised his clenched fist, and with a grunt of anger, he punched Castiel in the face. Castiel did his best to roll with the punch, so that Dean’s fingers wouldn’t break; even still, it must have hurt, but Dean was too upset and furious to feel the pain.

“Dean,” Castiel said. He raised the contract, numb with the strength of his realisation. He kept running over it in his mind, certain it couldn’t work - and yet -  _ possibly…  _ “Dean, could you - care again?”

Dean looked as though he wanted to scream. He backed away, shaking his head.

“Could you care again?” Castiel pushed. “To save Sam?”

Dean froze. His gaze went still, a slight madness drawn out by fury still glinting in his eyes. Hatred, brought on by loss, Castiel knew. It was the same look he’d seen a hundred thousand times - the look he drew out of those who were grieving.

“What?” Dean said. “What - what does that mean?”

Castiel shook his head.

“Look at this,” he said. “On the contract, do you - do you see?  _ Then shall the lovers be cast back into Hell together.  _ But it doesn’t say  _ which _ lovers. Do you see?”

Dean opened his mouth to retort angrily, and then closed it, slowly.

“You - you mean -”

“It doesn't have to be Sam and Jess who are cast back to Hell. It could be - us,” Castiel said. “It could be… you and me.” His head was spinning. He felt dizzy and sick with his own daring. “But it will only work, if… if you truly care for me.”

Dean’s face was a discordant symphony of a thousand instruments, as though every emotion were trying to write itself over his features at once.

“But - but you knew,” he whispered. “You knew this was going to happen to Sam. How can I let myself -” His voice shivered, and died.

“There have been times when mortals have been successful,” Castiel said, hearing the stretch and tear in his own voice. “There are times when it has worked. Dean, I - I let myself believe that Sam would be one of those people. I wanted to hope. I was foolish. I made a bad choice...”

“You mean - it could have worked?”

Castiel nodded.

“I thought that it would,” he said. He could feel that his eyes were full. “I hoped so badly, so much, that I thought I  _ knew  _ it would. But when I saw his face, as he walked down into the Underworld - it was already too late, the story had already started, he was already a part of it. I was powerless, Dean, I… didn’t know how to… I’ve never tried to stop anything like this before. I was a fool to hope, and a fool to go through with this, and a  _ fool  _ for - for every single choice. I was wrong…”

“Castiel,” Dean interrupted, and Castiel shuddered into silence.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could add. “I’m so, so sorry. If my - my stupidity, my foolishness - has broken the only thing that has a chance of saving Sam, then -” He hardened his features. “Then hang the consequences. I will tear up the contract. I will tear it all down,  _ all  _ of it.”

Dean stared at him, mouth slightly open.

“What happens if you break the contract?”

Castiel dropped his gaze, and lifted one shoulder.

“A god’s word is divine. Sacred,” he said. “I do not know. Maybe nothing. But maybe, if it is broken, the divinity is broken too. I would not be Hades any longer. Death would run unfettered; I do not know who it would take, I do not know if the dead would come back to life…”

“And you’d - you’d do that, you’d risk that - for Sam?”

Castiel looked at Sam, frozen in the window within the fountain. Sam, Dean’s little brother. Sam, whom Dean would die for, would walk into Hell and back for. Castiel lifted his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said, hearing his own disbelief in his voice. The amount that he would give, the prices he would pay, to have Dean safe, his loved ones safe - it felt devastating. “I would. I swear on the Styx. I would do it.”

Dean was shaking his head.

“You stupid - you stupid - you  _ stupid _ \- I should hate you. I  _ should _ ,” he said. “You let Sam walk in there on a hope and a prayer.”

Castiel said nothing. He agreed.

“But - Zeus help me - I don’t. I don’t hate you.”

Still, Castiel did not speak. He couldn’t find any words. Dean  _ should  _ hate him. Everyone hated him;  _ everyone  _ hated death, hated loss, hated grief, eventually.

“I don't. I should. But I don't,” Dean said again, with disbelief in his tone, as though waiting for the the feeling to dispel, for hatred and fury to reclaim him.

“ _ How? _ ” Castiel croaked. How could Dean not hate him? Dean seemed to be searching for the answer himself, expression flickering through emotions as he thought.

Castiel felt time pull away from him, just a touch. He tightened his grip.

“I know I was only supposed to be pretending to care about you,” Dean said. “I thought it was gonna be hard. I thought you were - I thought you had to be dark, and cruel, to do a job like yours.” Castiel nodded. It was true. Inside, he was dark. He was void. He was  _ nothing.  _ “But that’s not - not what I found. You’re not dark, or evil, you’re just - you’re just one person, doing something impossible.”

“I - what?” Castiel said, his throat dry. Dean raised his hands in a shrug, looking lost.

“Making hard decisions,” he said. “Taking things away, so that people don’t have to choose to let them go. And you get it wrong, sometimes, you get it really,  _ really  _ wrong, but - but I know you. I know you don’t want to cause hurt. You’re just - you’re the way the world solves the problem of time, and that’s not your fault, and you’re doing your best, and - and Castiel, I -”

Castiel couldn’t stop the single tear dripping down his cheek. He could feel his grip on time starting to slip, and focused harder; he  _ needed  _ to hear this.

“It’s complicated and it’s barely been long enough,” Dean said. “It’s stupid and it’s crazy and I’m just a mortal and you’re a  _ god _ , but I - I do care about you, Castiel. I did, and - and I still - I still do.” Dean’s cheeks were wet with tears. “Do - do you…?”

Castiel flicked a small, dry, bittersweet smile.

“Of course,” he said. He met Dean’s eyes; Dean was visibly shaking. “Of course I do.” Time pressed in on him, begging to wash over them, move them forwards, chase them back into the current. Castiel gritted his teeth against it.

“Then - then we’re - you and me, we’re the… the lovers?” Dean said. Castiel frowned with the strain, and nodded.

“And we’ll get cast back into Hell?”

“When time reclaims us,” Castiel said. “Any moment now…”

Dean moved over to him, hands slightly outstretched, but not enough to touch Castiel.

“Cas,” he said. “It’s OK. You can let go.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Castiel gasped. “What if I - what if I’m wrong?”

Dean frowned, and now he did reach out, and put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders.

“You can do this,” he said. “I believe in you. You can make it work.”

Castiel stared into his face for a few long, long seconds. _Not nothing,_ he thought. _I'm not nothing._ _I’m something. Something Dean believes in._

He kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s face as he tightened his grip on the sceptre, gritted his teeth as tight as they’d go - and let go.

Time swirled back over and around them, rushing in like a wave running high on a hurricane breeze. Sounds slammed into them - the water from the fountain seeming impossibly loud, and the shout of Jess’ name that had just left Sam’s throat still echoing, echoing, echoing…

Castiel bent his will to the contract, and it fought him - his own  _ divinity  _ fought him. It knew what his original intention had been; it knew what he had meant by lovers. It knew that Sam and Jess were supposed to be dragged back to the Underworld, now, for all eternity and longer still. Castiel  _ fought  _ it, his eyes screwed shut, fists clenched. He tried to draw on whatever power he had, feeling the path of fate trying to pull itself down into the usual path, the well-trodden way -

“Not  _ today _ !” Castiel growled, digging himself in with an almighty effort, single-handedly holding back the force of destiny itself. He dropped the sceptre, and flexed his hands.  _ I have hands,  _ he thought. He raised them, palms up, groaning under the weight that bore down on him, on his body, on his mind.

Slowly, slowly, it shifted - Castiel gave a cry as the tide turned, and rolled in a new direction - he opened his eyes, and reached for Dean’s hand - and then they were both picked up on a wind that carried them down, down,  _ down,  _ falling from Olympus, past the mortal world… and back into the Underworld.

**

Dean woke up slowly, and painfully. Every inch of his body ached. The last thing he remembered was the sensation of falling, with Cas’ hand in his own, and darkness all around him…

He sat up suddenly, his head giving a throb that made him hiss with pain and close his eyes. The gloom was so thick that he couldn’t tell where he was - had it worked? Was Sam safe?

“Cas?” he called out, softly - somehow afraid to speak loudly, when he couldn’t see anything around him. “Castiel?”

He heard the sound of something moving close by, in the darkness - a quiet rustle of material. He thought he could make out the shape of a silhouette, a deeper black human-like figure, with the points of a crown atop its head.

“It worked,” said the figure, in a voice that Dean knew. It coughed. “That’s a surprise.”

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Where are we?”

Cas was silent for a moment, looking around them - Dean could just make out his head flicking from left to right.

“I think…” Cas said, “I think - we’re home.”

Dean heard him move, and next thing he knew, he was being blinded - a bright blue light flared in the darkness, and then disappeared as quickly as it had come. On it went, and then off - on, off, on, off. Dean’s eyes eventually adjusted enough to be able to see Cas sitting on the floor, arm outstretched, reaching for his sceptre. Every time his fingers touched it, it lit up; when he removed his hand, it went dark.

“That’s new,” Cas said.

Dean thought he sounded a little pleased.

Cas picked up the sceptre properly, and by its light the two of them stood up, grunting with the pain in their bodies after the fall. Sure enough, when Dean was upright and able to look around, he realised that Cas had been absolutely right - they  _ were  _ home. Cas’ home. The trees of the forest in the Underworld stretched away on all sides, their heavy dark fruit shiny and ripe. Not far away, the palace rose up, just visible through the leafy ceiling.

For a long, long moment, they simply stood next to each other, reacquainting themselves with each other’s company - letting the troubled waters between them settle.

“Are you alright?” Cas said, eventually. Dean looked over at him, and nodded.

“Sam’s safe?” he said. Cas nodded.

“We fell,” he said. “Sam and Jess will have made it out alive. We can check on them, as soon as we return to the palace.” He frowned, and corrected himself, “As soon as  _ I  _ return. You - you do not have to come.”

“What?” Dean said.

“You should… you should go home.”

“Cas,” Dean said, “I made my choice. I got cast down here into Hell with you. Remember? I can’t just walk out…”

“Why not?” Cas asked.

“Well,” Dean sputtered, “well, it’s - you’re the one who always - it’s in the contract, it’s the rules!”

“It’s our contract,” Cas said. He was speaking a little faster than he had before, Dean noticed. His facial expressions were moving. He was not weighed down by any of the usual ways he expressed his divinity. And yet the very air around him seemed to crackle with energy; Dean had never seen him so powerful. “It's our contract and it’s my kingdom. I am in control.” He closed his eyes, and curved his hand. All around them, the ambient blue light grew brighter, so that they no longer needed the sceptre to see by.

Dean stared at him.

“Weren’t you always?” he asked weakly, after a moment. Cas smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “But I had no idea.” 

They were quiet for a moment. What had happened in the spire hovered between them; Dean didn't know how to talk about it, didn't see how they could talk about anything else.

When Dean looked across the short distance of gloomy forest at Cas, he saw that the smile had fallen from his face.

“What,” Dean said, though he knew exactly what he was thinking about.

“Dean, I know - what you said about us on Olympus - I know it must have been true, because it worked. We’re - we’re lovers.” Even now, even after everything that had happened, the words still had the power to bring a blush to Dean’s cheeks.  _ Lovers.  _ The word held possibilities…

“I meant what I said,” he replied simply, not wanting to say too much. Cas nodded.

“But Dean, I still think that you should go home.”

“Cas -”

“No, Dean, listen. This place is where I belong. I don’t mind the dark, I like it. I like the quiet. But you… Dean, you belong in the light. You need to be somewhere with sunlight.” He dropped the sceptre to the ground, and reached out to take one of Dean’s hands in his. “Dean, you can go home. To the woods, and the river, and the flowers. You can  _ go.  _ I won’t stop you. I’ll help you.”

For perhaps a whole second, Dean considered just leaving, going back to his tiny house and never looking back - never being able to see Cas again. He would be able to see Sam, and Jess -

A thought occurred to him, and suddenly, he smiled ever so slightly. When Cas tilted his head to one side questioningly, Dean only turned towards one of the nearby trees, and reached up on the tips of his toes, and managed to pluck a single fruit from the lowest of the branches.

With the light around him brighter, he could see that the fruit wasn’t so dark at all - not black, at least, but deep crimson. He tore it open, and found exactly what he’d expected to find - seeds.

Pomegranate seeds.

“Dean…” Cas said, stepping forwards and reaching out his hand for the fruit, to take it away. Before he could, Dean picked out one of the seeds, and put it into his mouth.

He chewed. It tasted strong - bitter as lemon, sweet as sugar. Bittersweet fruit.

He took another, and ate that, too.

“ _ Dean, _ ” said Cas. “Dean, I -”

“Do you really think,” Dean said, “that I would just leave you like that?”

“I don’t -”

“Do you really think that I would leave you to face all the worst parts of your job alone?”

“Dean, just -”

“I’m going to be with you,” Dean said, “for six months.”

Cas stopped speaking.

“Then I’ll return home.”

Dean ate his third seed, and his fourth.

“And then I’ll come back to you, six months after that.”

The fifth seed tasted more sour than the others. The sixth, however, was the sweetest.

“I will be your Persephone,” Dean said. “For as long as you’ll have me. I may not be the true one, but...”

Cas took a step closer, and the pleasant shock of his sudden proximity struck Dean into silence. He held still, hoping, and was rewarded with the touch of Cas’ hand across his cheek, a ghost of a touch.

“You are the only person I want by my side,” Cas said. “That is enough for me.”

His gaze dipped down to Dean’s lips. Dean had a sudden strong, intense memory, of the feeling of Cas’ hands on his waist, the way that Cas’ lips had felt against his own -

“Cas,” Dean said, in a low voice. “Cas…”

“I know,” Cas said. “I know.”

When they kissed, just a quick, gentle peck, it tasted of pomegranate seeds - bittersweet. A bittersweet love, Dean thought. He had a bittersweet love; he had a bittersweet heart. And he wanted the taste of it, again and again. He leaned back in, and kissed Cas deeper.

“I love you,” Cas said, against his lips. “I love you.”

Dean held him close, the feelings in his chest too new, too strange to be spoken aloud. Instead, he only said,

“I’ll always be here for you.”

Cas went still in his arms, and then squeezed him tighter.

“A strange kind of love,” he said. “But a good kind.”

“Bittersweet love,” Dean said, letting the words tumble, not thinking them through. “For bittersweet hearts.”

“Bittersweethearts?”

Dean smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Bittersweethearts.”


	13. Chapter 13

_ Six months later _

The earth is still hard, and compact, the air chilled, the skies grey. Dean emerges.

He walks, the sensation of dirt under his feet a novelty. He goes barefoot in the Underworld, no need to stamp around in big boots to keep himself as Dean - but in the mortal world, he’s going to need some shoes back. The road sends him a familiar way, along the riverbank, through the trees. He soaks up the sensation of sunlight - the light room in the Underworld can never compare to the real thing. The air tastes good, despite the end-of-winter bristle at its edge.

He walks home. The village is quiet, and no one sees him.

His house looks neither big nor small, only familiar. He walks up to the front door, and knocks.

He waits for the footsteps…  _ there.  _ The creaking floorboards…  _ there.  _ The snap of the latch…  _ there. _

Sam, his little brother.  _ There. _

“Dean,” Sam says, and then seems to melt against the door frame, his relief too immediate and strong to even greet his brother properly. Dean does the work for him, pulling Sam into a hug and laughing.

“I told you I’d be coming home soon,” he says. “Last time we spoke.”

“I almost didn’t believe it,” Sam says. “It’s so good to see you  _ here,  _ in person, Dean…” He hugs his brother back fiercely, and suddenly. “Jess is cooking. Come on, your room is just how you left it…”

Dean smiles. “I’ll be there in a second. I just want to take a walk, get my bearings again. Do you have any spare boots -?”

Sam bends down behind the door, and produces a pair of worn, muddy shoes before Dean can even finish the sentence.

“Got them ready, right here,” he says. Dean grins, and punches him on the arm. He begins to pull them on. Nothing quite feels real; the mortal world is like a dream, too bright and big for him to believe, too vivid. Life was so much bigger than death.

“How is Jess?” Dean asks, tying his laces. Sam is leaning on the doorframe, looking as though he'd been trying to figure out what to say.

“She's great,” Sam said, beaming. “Only a few more months.”

“By the way,” Dean says. “I thought of a name, uh, since you asked. I was gonna say Dean -”

“Of course you were,” Sam said, mock-flatly. Dean grinned.

“But uh, well, if it's a girl… what about Summer?”

“Summer?” Sam replies curiously. Dean shrugs.

“I knew someone with that name,” he says. “Kind of. It suited her. Maybe it'll suit the baby, too.”

“Summer,” Sam says again, and this time Dean knows by the way that he says it that he likes it.

“I’ll be back,” Dean says, and turns away.

The walk to the graveyard is short, but Dean takes his time over it. He’s not quite sure why he’s going; he only knows that he wants to see it - to be there again, in the place where it all began.

The gravestone markers are still lightly coated in morning dew, the day fresh and long yet. There isn’t much of a breeze; as always, Dean feels the sensation of graveyard peace wrap around him, soothing his nerves at being out in the light and the noise again, and without Cas.

He goes to the grave that was once marked  _ Jessica Moore;  _ now, there’s nothing there but a patch of turned earth, that the grass has not yet reclaimed - winter’s bite too chilling still for the plants to flourish. Pausing beside it, Dean takes a moment to look around. This is where he stood, six months ago. This is the place where he’d been standing, when he met Cas for the first time. Hades, he’d been, then. A very different person, and yet somehow exactly the same.

Dean turns, and something catches his eye. There, in the grass - a glitter of silver, trodden into the dirt and hidden by the grass, visible only to someone lingering, and looking. Dean bends down, and picks it up: a coin, dirty and weathered, but with the unmistakeable sigil on it - the mark of Hades.

Dean cups the coin in his hand - the same one that he’d given to Cas here in this graveyard, the same one that Cas had flung to the floor in despair. It feels cold against his skin, in a way that is familiar. It reminds him of the Underworld.

He curls his fingers up, clenching his fist around the coin, and smiles. He guesses that Cas watches him, even now, through a window in his fireplace. The thought is comforting.

He'll see Cas again soon, he knows. It won't be too long before he's looking into those blue eyes again.

In the meantime, there’s a home to help build - a family to be a part of.

Dean walks away, and doesn’t cast a second glance at the place in the earth where Jess was once buried. If he had, he might have seen that growing there, its crimson head bobbing in the breeze, is a flower - a single, tiny bloom.

The first flower of spring. 


End file.
